


Unintended

by softestpunk



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Emhyr's schemes have schemes, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Post-Blood and Wine (The Witcher 3 DLC), also Geralt and Emhyr are dads, also sex, and Ciri is torn between being thrilled and annoyed by this, but it all works out in the end and Geralt is mostly happy, politics happens, then MORE feelings happen, then feelings happen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-13 11:07:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14747672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softestpunk/pseuds/softestpunk
Summary: “I brought you here to ask for your hand in marriage,” Emhyr pronounced carefully.Geralt and Emhyr get married, for political reasons. At first, Geralt finds this very funny.This does not last long, but it all works out okay.





	Unintended

**Author's Note:**

> Canon is absolutely 100% cherry-picked for this fic and I will not apologise.

By the time he was standing in front of the Emperor’s desk, Geralt was finally starting to wonder why he’d just up and _responded_ to being summoned here, from his nice, comfortable vineyard in a country where people more or less liked him and he had more or less unlimited access to wine and a comfortable bed.

Because of Ciri, he supposed. He’d wanted to see her, and she wasn’t going to get a chance to come to him anytime soon. Emhyr had her on a short leash, but…

Well, it wasn’t anything she couldn’t have _broken_ , if she wanted to. She wanted to be empress. If Geralt wanted to stay a part of her life, he’d just have to accept that her life was in Nilfgaard or wait for state visits further afield.

Emhyr didn’t look thrilled to see him, at least, so that was something.

“You look well,” Emhyr said, completely throwing off everything Geralt thought he knew about the man in three small words, barely above a whisper.

Geralt blinked.

“The beard suits you,” he added in a perfectly flat, reasonable tone, and Geralt squinted at him, looking for signs that he’d been replaced by a doppler.

“I have a request for you,” he continued, which was enough to make Geralt’s eyes bulge.

A _request_. Not a task. Not an order. Not a contract, even.

A _request_. From the Emperor of Nilfgaard, a man who’d probably never made a _request_ before in his life.

Geralt suddenly noticed the lack of guards in the room. It wasn’t that he wasn’t used to speaking with Emhyr in private, exactly, but he hadn’t ordered them out this time. They’d never been allowed _in_.

“What the hell is going on?” Geralt asked, his patience with a solicitous, accommodating Emhyr running all the way out.

“I plan to marry,” Emhyr said, and Geralt was just faintly starting to think that this was some cunning plan to make him die of stress.

“And you want a monster trophy to gift your intended?” Geralt asked, realising as he said it that he’d maybe been in Toussaint a little _too_ long.

Emhyr looked at him, then. _Really_ looked, as though he’d only just noticed Geralt was in the room.

Holy shit.

Emhyr was _nervous_.

Geralt’s mind raced with the possibilities. He’d only ever seen him like this…

Ciri.

“What’s wrong with Ciri?” Geralt asked, his mouth ten steps ahead of his brain.

“Nothing,” Emhyr said. It was at least the shortest lie he’d ever told.

Geralt glared at him.

“Truly, nothing. At least, not yet. I have called you here to prevent disaster from befalling her.”

“You couldn’t have _opened_ with that?” Geralt snapped, rage welling up in his chest. Ciri was in trouble, and he was standing here wasting time talking about Emhyr’s goddamn _wedding plans_.

“Cirilla advised me to be… polite, if I wanted your help in this matter.”

“Cut the shit and get to the point,” Geralt said, absolutely, _entirely_ done with politeness after only a few minutes of it.

“Very well.” Emhyr approached him, too close for comfort.

“I brought you here to ask for your hand in marriage,” Emhyr pronounced carefully.

Geralt did the only sensible thing he could think of, under the circumstances.

He bolted.

{~*~}

Geralt ran actually, literally, head-first into Ciri as he got away from the Emperor’s chambers as fast as he could without breaking into an actual sprint and alarming the guards.

At least he couldn’t hear anyone calling for his immediate execution.

“Ciri, Emhyr is possessed,” Geralt said. “Or… a doppler, or… something,” he finished pathetically. His medallion hadn’t so much as twitched, but...

Ciri raised an eyebrow. “What did he say to you, exactly?”

“He asked me to _marry him_ ,” Geralt said, still panicking.

Instead of expressing concern, or indeed _surprise_ , Ciri burst into laughter.

Geralt stood and stared, waiting for some kind of reasonable explanation to materialise.

Maybe it was a joke.

Maybe Emhyr had fallen victim to some kind of curse that had given him a sense of humour.

Maybe…

“I told him to be polite about it,” Ciri said, mirth still written all over her features. “He fumed for a week when he…” she paused, looking at Geralt closely. “You didn’t ask for an explanation, did you?”

“Wasn’t offered one,” Geralt said, suspicion growing.

“You mean you didn’t stick around long enough to _get_ one,” Ciri said. “You ran away. Literally ran away. Are you _that_ afraid of commitment?”

Geralt blinked at her. “I’m that afraid of commitment to Emhyr,” he said after a moment, slightly ashamed of himself.

“Come with me,” Ciri offered her arm. “He’s probably still fuming at not immediately getting what he wanted. I’ll have him explain.”

Geralt paused a few moments before taking Ciri’s arm and allowing himself to be led back toward Emhyr’s chambers.

“Can I at least get a hint about this?” Geralt asked.

“It would be _much_ more fun to make Emhyr explain it to you,” she said, still grinning.

“Ciri,” Geralt said in warning.

“ _Fine_.” Ciri sighed. “The nobility are claiming that Emhyr has to marry you to make me his legitimate heir.”

That didn’t explain a single thing. It didn’t even _begin_ to explain anything.

“They’ve decided that I am, legally speaking, your child as well as Emhyr’s and my mother’s. Since my mother is dead…” Ciri paused, squeezing Geralt’s arm. “But my father has never been married to you, well… he has to marry you to make me legally his legitimate daughter.”

“Kinda sounds like horseshit,” Geralt said.

“It is,” Ciri agreed. “But Nilfgaardians _love_ obscure, ridiculous laws. They just assumed that Emhyr wouldn’t go through with marrying you.”

Geralt smiled wryly. “They underestimated him,” he said.

Emhyr was many things, but a coward wasn’t among them.

“... and they assumed that even if _he_ was willing to do it, _you_ wouldn’t be. Apparently there was even an assassination attempt on you, just to be sure.”

Geralt thought back. Lots of people tried to kill him. He rarely took it personally.

He did remember some slightly cleaner, richer, better-trained than usual bandits on the way here, though.

“Yeah, maybe.” He shrugged. “You don’t sound worried.”

“I wasn’t,” Ciri said. “They underestimated you, too.”

Suddenly, they were standing in front of the door to Emhyr’s chambers, the guards standing on either side looking at Geralt with interest.

They were still getting used to the idea of witchers being _real_ in Nilfgaard. For most of the twenty-something men in full dress regalia with big, useless halberds hanging around the palace, witchers were bedtime stories used to scare naughty children with.

“Maybe,” Geralt said. “Is Emhyr asking this, or are you?”

“I made him ask,” Ciri said.

Geralt had to pause for a moment to consider the idea of anyone _making_ Emhyr do anything. If anyone could, though, it’d be Ciri.

Even Yen was smart enough not to try and manipulate Emhyr, but Ciri… she was his daughter. And his only hope to avoid being overthrown and murdered like his father.

“So this is what you want? To be empress?”

“A witcher’s job is to protect people,” Ciri said. “But we only ever manage to save people one at a time. This way… I could save everyone.”

Geralt turned to look at her, seeing all the youthful hope in her eyes. Ciri really believed she could save the world.

Hell, she already _had_ saved the world.

If anyone was up to the job, it was Ciri.

And she was asking for Geralt’s help to do it. When had he ever refused to help her before?

This was a little different, but the principle was the same. He needed to protect Ciri. If there were questions about her legitimacy--even horseshit ones--then she was in danger, and Geralt had the power to get her out of it.

He took a deep breath and pushed open the door to Emhyr’s office, the guards paying no mind to him because Ciri was right there.

Emhyr was, not unexpectedly, fuming behind his desk. He regarded Geralt coldly, though his expression softened as his gaze moved to Ciri.

“You could have explained yourself first,” Ciri said, with a note of gentle reproach in her voice. She’d learned a lot from Nenneke.

“Geralt could have avoided running away like a frightened maiden,” Emhyr pointed out.

Geralt couldn’t argue with that. He’d been shocked into running, because it was--or it had _seemed_ \--so unlike Emhyr.

Emhyr was a fixed point in the world. He was always the same. And suddenly he’d seemed not to be.

Now that Geralt knew it was all a scheme, he could see that Emhyr just hadn’t been sure how to convince Geralt to do this.

All he’d needed to do was tell him it was for Ciri first. That should have been obvious.

“I’ll marry you,” he said, decision already made. This was for Ciri. He’d jump through whatever undoubtedly complex hoops he needed to, promise to be faithful to Emhyr forever and ever, and then slip away once Ciri was firmly on the throne. Maybe fake his own death for a little dramatic flair.

Emhyr raised an eyebrow. “You seemed alarmed by the thought not half an hour ago.”

“Ciri explained why you were asking. _I_ thought you were being possessed,” Geralt said.

“You were correct in assuming I have no particular desire to marry you,” Emhyr responded. “I had thought a _note_ of sincerity would make it easier for you to accept. Historically, you haven’t liked ultimatums or dry practical transactions. You like to be convinced. You like to have your _heart_ appealed to.”

“And you were gonna tell me you’d… what, fallen madly in love with me?”

“You’re right,” Emhyr said. “Since that is completely impossible for _anyone_ , you would have struggled to believe it coming from me.”

Geralt opened his mouth to object, but he couldn’t quite think how to. He would never have believed it.

He just wanted to argue with Emhyr for the sake of arguing with him. If they were married, at least he could do _that_ as often as he wanted, and Emhyr probably couldn’t have him executed for it.

“So then how are people gonna believe you’re marrying me because you want to?” Geralt asked.

Emhyr snorted. “You can’t have spent so much time at various courts and come away with the conclusion that the majority of rulers have the luxury of marrying out of _love_.”

“Sure, but usually they aren’t constantly at each other’s throats,” Geralt said.

“And you cannot _possibly_ have met so many married couples and come away believing that, either,” Emhyr said.

That was hard to argue with. The majority of people seemed pretty unhappily married.

“The story we will tell is that we’re coming together for practical reasons, to support our daughter as she makes the transition to empress. I will be forced to abdicate immediately after the wedding if any of this is to make any difference. The more I think about it, the more I suspect this is simply a plot to humiliate me.”

“Hey,” Geralt said. “I’m not that bad.”

“But you are to the Nilfgaardian nobility,” Ciri interrupted, stopping Emhyr from responding himself. “They look at you and see a Northern barbarian who makes his living swinging a sword at mindless monsters. A common mercenary.”

That wasn’t a completely inaccurate description, though Geralt would have challenged any of them to say it to his face. Not that they would. The point was to laugh behind Emhyr’s back.

If anything, that was motivation to go along with it. He could stand to be brought down a peg or two.

“Indeed,” Emhyr said. “Whatever qualities you may have, none of them are refined manners and a bloodline that can be traced back to the founding of the empire.”

“And I’m a man,” Geralt said.

Emhyr rolled his eyes. “There’s no need to be provincial. This is Nilfgaard, not some Northern backwater.”

Geralt blinked. “Huh,” he said, surprised that was such a non-issue that Emhyr was annoyed he’d even brought it up.

“And you cannot pretend to me that it would be unusual for you to find your affection, at least temporarily, directed at one of your own sex,” Emhyr said. “I have kept an eye on you, witcher. Not that it would make any difference in this case.”

Geralt was suddenly extremely glad that he wasn’t prone to blushing.

“I already agreed, anyway,” Geralt said. “How soon can we get this over with?”

“I could have the arrangements made and completed within a week, if you’re in a hurry.”

“I am,” Geralt said. “Do I need to do anything in particular?”

“Try not to get yourself killed beforehand,” Emhyr said dryly. “It would make things awkward.”

“Your concern for my personal safety is touching,” Geralt said, equally dry.

“Yay,” Ciri said sarcastically. “Now I get to be a normal girl whose parents fight all the time.”

Though he knew she was joking, Ciri’s words hit Geralt like a physical blow. He didn’t _like_ Emhyr, and there was no point in pretending otherwise, but for Ciri’s sake, he knew he should tolerate him.

Instead of constantly baiting him, as he instinctively wanted to do. Making Emhyr angry was entertaining, but not worth making Ciri miserable.

“I’ll stop fighting him,” Geralt promised, unsurprised when Emhyr was silent on the subject. _He_ wasn’t going to be the one to hurt Ciri.

“I was joking,” she said weakly.

“I know,” Geralt responded. “But you deserve us to be civil for your sake. And just because they _think_ I’m a barbarian, doesn’t mean I have to act like one.”

Emhyr huffed. “If there’s nothing else you want?” he asked, clearly directing the question at Geralt.

“Somewhere to sleep,” Geralt said. “And a bath,” he added, figuring that if he was going to be engaged to the Emperor of Nilfgaard, he might as well have gotten a benefit or two out of it.

“Both of which go without saying. Quarters have already been prepared for you, and I imagine your bath has been drawn by now.”

Geralt sighed.

Of course Emhyr had known he’d agree.

Geralt gave him one last, silent glare, and then turned to the doors. “Thanks, honey,” he called back as he opened them, making sure the guards heard him.

This was going to be a long week.

{~*~}

Emhyr barged in on Geralt during his third bath in as many days, and didn’t even have the courtesy to look embarrassed about it.

If anything, he looked as though he’d _planned_ on cornering Geralt while he bathed, which, Geralt realised a moment later, was almost certainly true. It made Geralt comparatively vulnerable, and kept him stuck in one spot until Emhyr left.

“It has been impressed upon me,” Emhyr said. “That I should warn you in advance that there are… certain members of the nobility insisting on the consummation of our union being witnessed.”

That got Geralt’s attention.

“They want us to fuck in public?”

Emhyr gave him an unamused look. “Not in public. Within earshot of a priest from the temple. There will be a screen, but it will need to be convincing.”

“Are you planning on giving in to them?” Geralt asked.

“I expected you to express an opinion on the matter,” Emhyr said.

Geralt shrugged. “Worse things have happened to me. I was impaled with a pitchfork once, for example.”

Emhyr remained silent, looking at Geralt coldly.

“I’m not going to fight you, Emhyr,” Geralt said. “I promised Ciri. If you _want_ me to raise an objection to get you out of this…”

The thing was, Geralt had never considered that he might have to do anything other than stand around while a ceremony occurred and agree during the last part that yeah, sure, he’d be legally bound to Emhyr until one of them died.

The other thing was, though, that he had a hard time being nervous about letting Emhyr fuck him. Emhyr wasn’t completely repulsive, and it’d annoy him that he had to do it. Win-win, as far as Geralt was concerned.

“You believe I won’t go through with it?” Emhyr asked.

“I believe you’ll go through with it,” Geralt said. “You’ve done worse, too. I just also know that you won’t like it.”

“And despite the fact that you won’t like it _either_ , you’re willing to endure it for the sake of making my humiliation complete?”

“No,” Geralt said. “I think that satisfying the nobles plotting against you by letting them see you make an idiot of yourself with a common witcher is the best way to protect Ciri while she grabs power with both hands. And I think you know it, too. You just want _me_ to be the one to screw it up, if it’s gonna go wrong.”

“Ciri wants to rule,” Emhyr said.

“I know,” Geralt responded, finally standing and rising from his bath. The water was cold by now, and he liked the idea of showing Emhyr that he wasn’t trapped here at all.

To his credit, Emhyr didn’t even flinch.

“Which is why I’m going along with all this instead of letting you get yourself killed by your political rivals.”

“I didn’t imagine it was out of any affection for me,” Emhyr said.

Was that a note of bitterness in his voice? Emhyr had spent most of his life doing absolutely nothing to endear himself to Geralt, he couldn’t really expect to be considered a _friend_ , could he?

Of course not, Geralt realised. He expected _loyalty_ , which was what he thought affection was.

Not for the first time, Geralt pitied him.

“You are correct,” Emhyr said, which was enough to make Geralt fumble with the towel he was trying to wrap around his waist. “And as such, you will enter me, as opposed to the reverse.”

The towel instantly became a lost cause, slipping from Geralt’s fingers.

Which was a shame, because his cock had just shown a twitch of interest.

He bent down to pick it up, hoping desperately that Emhyr wouldn’t comment on his witcher reflexes failing him, or something equally _knowing_.

Emhyr had to have noticed that reaction. Subtle as Geralt liked to think it was, there was no missing it. Not for a man who could tell what someone was thinking by the way they drew breath.

Silence fell between them as Geralt retrieved his towel and tucked it safely around his waist.

“Because it will make my humiliation complete in the eyes of my political rivals, as you so correctly name them,” he explained unnecessarily.

There was that nervousness again. No one else would have picked it up, save the one man Emhyr had been nervous in front of before. He’d been nervous about Ciri, too, and when he was nervous, he talked just a _little_ too much.

“I won’t hurt you,” Geralt said, wondering if that was where the nervousness was coming from. “Some people even _like_ sex with me.”

Emhyr snorted, but the air of tension around him eased off a little.

Geralt wasn’t sure whether or not he should be insulted that Emhyr had thought he _might_ hurt him, out of… what, malice? Indifference? Not knowing what the hell he was doing?

Probably some combination of all three.

“Difficult to determine _why_ , but I’ll take your word for it,” Emhyr said, and it almost felt like good-natured teasing.

Very, very slowly, Geralt realised that he _was_ probably the closest thing Emhyr had ever had to a friend. It would have galled him to think of Geralt as an equal, but… they did have a kind of power stalemate between them, and they hadn’t always been completely hostile toward each other, and they were, in Geralt’s mind at least, _both_ Ciri’s parents.

Even if Emhyr hadn’t been a great father.

He was making up for it now, in his own way. Putting aside his personal comfort to make Ciri’s transition to ruling easier.

He could have no doubt simply found other ways to quiet the objections to her legitimacy. Beheadings, for example. He was good at ordering those.

But this was a more peaceful solution that would see Ciri blessed with a more peaceful reign. The greatest gift, in his mind, that he could bestow on his daughter.

“Witcher stamina,” Geralt responded, walking away to put on fresh clothes.

He was _almost_ getting used to not being dressed in armour all the time. He’d never been able to bring himself to dress like a vintner, but now he was learning to dress like the Emperor’s intended.

At least black suited him.

“Please do not feel the need to demonstrate the limits of it,” Emhyr said dryly, and _that_ sounded almost like a joke.

So much so that Geralt had to stop himself from laughing. Or from joking _back_ , which he suspected would try Emhyr’s patience. Even if his patience seemed a little better these days.

Maybe knowing that the weight of being in charge was about to be lifted from his shoulders helped. He couldn’t _always_ have been like this. He’d even been a romantic, once.

“Geralt,” Emhyr said all of a sudden, just when Geralt had thought the conversation was over. “You mentioned acquiring a trophy from a monster. Is that… the traditional thing to give a witcher as a wedding gift?”

Geralt turned to look at him, his trousers halfway laced and his eyebrow raised. “Witchers… don’t traditionally get married.”

Emhyr nodded. “I suspected not. What made you mention it?”

“Uh, it’s a thing I ran into in Toussaint a couple of times. I guess it _is_ tradition there.”

Emhyr hummed. “I understand you were given a vineyard in payment for a contract there,” he said. It wasn’t a question, he was just demonstrating his encyclopedic knowledge of Geralt’s life.

“Which I think rules out giving you an estate or a small province, since you would have limited use for another one.”

Geralt’s eyes widened. Emhyr had been thinking about just handing him a _province_?

What the hell did you even _do_ with a province? It seemed like something that’d involve a lot of paperwork.

“You don’t need to give me a gift,” Geralt said, horrified at Emhyr’s idea of a wedding gift.

“I really must,” Emhyr said.

Ah. Tradition.

Geralt was getting tired of the concept of tradition.

“A sword or something, then,” Geralt said.

Emhyr gave him a dark look. “That would be ill advised, considering the number of monarchs who have been overthrown by their spouses.”

“I’m not planning on staging a coup.” Geralt sighed. “I _definitely_ don’t want your job. It’s dangerous.”

Emhyr snorted again. “I shall take that as a compliment, coming from a witcher.”

Geralt struggled with his clothes some more, saying nothing.

“A horse, then,” Emhyr said after another moment.

“You already forced a horse on me,” Geralt said. “And it’s beautiful and I can’t ride two at once,” he added.

“And not a terribly appropriate wedding gift, either, since it would imply that I wanted you to have the means to leave.”

Geralt’s head was spinning. This was, if anything, worse than being told he was going to have to fuck Emhyr in front of a priest.

That, at least, had a certain appeal to it. Discussing the appropriateness of wedding gifts, when he had absolutely no knowledge on the subject, was torture.

“Wait,” Geralt said. “I need to give you a gift, too, don’t I?”

Emhyr nodded. “One more in line with your own, uh… _means_ , however. It has already been arranged.”

“What is it?” Geralt asked cautiously, not entirely sure he wanted to know.

“A barrel of Corvo Bianco red,” Emhyr said. “Did you know, one of my father’s first attempted usurpers was from Corvo.”

Geralt hadn’t known that, or if he had, he’d forgotten it.

“Huh,” Geralt said. “Surprised you haven’t burned it down.”

Emhyr rolled his eyes, which, for Emhyr, was a startling display of emotion. “I am not cruel for the sake of cruelty, and the rest of the inhabitants have done me no harm. Besides, I understand the wine you produce is excellent.”

Geralt had no idea, since he hadn’t been there to taste it. He’d been busy travelling to Nilfgaard.

“I also understand the price of a barrel has increased tenfold since word of one being sent to the Imperial palace began to spread,” Emhyr said. “You should expect a hundred-fold increase after it is served.”

“What if it’s awful?” Geralt asked, curious.

“Then a wine which _isn’t_ awful will be placed in the barrel,” Emhyr said. “Though I imagine some of the guests may find it more sour the better it is.”

Geralt snorted. Emhyr wasn’t going to let them have _that_ one, though it would have been a greater embarrassment to Geralt.

“Not much of a gift,” Geralt said after a moment. “I mean I guess it’s fine, but…”

“It is _appropriate_. You are a tradesman. This is the product of your labour. It is the correct gift.”

Geralt wanted to argue that he wasn’t, actually, a vintner. His trade was hunting down monsters. Except if Emhyr took his logic to heart, then they’d be back at square one as far as wedding gifts went.

“So whatever you give me should be… because of who you are, in some way?”

Emhyr nodded. “If there’s something you can think of…”

“You already gave me the only thing I’ve ever wanted from you.” Geralt shrugged. “Which is why we’re in this mess.”

“Ciri,” Emhyr said, understanding where Geralt’s thought process was going. “I wonder…”

Geralt remained silent, giving Emhyr a chance to think.

“When Pavetta was pregnant…” Emhyr began, his voice catching.

After all these years, he still missed her. Whatever Geralt thought of Emhyr, he had loved Ciri’s mother. Geralt was sure of that.

“I made her a carved sparrow. Cirilla, I mean. But she was never old enough for me to give it to her, and then I lost her, and…”

Hell, that was actual emotion in Emhyr’s voice.

He cleared his throat before Geralt could entirely appreciate it. “In any case, I kept it. It is perhaps the most precious thing I have, aside from Cirilla herself. Would you accept it?”

Geralt’s mouth fell open.

Wasn’t this… meant to be a sham marriage, more or less? Did Emhyr care _that_ much about appearances?

“What if I lost it?” Geralt asked, shocked that Emhyr had managed to keep track of it for so many years and through so much upheaval.

“You will not,” Emhyr said. “Because she means as much to you as she does to me. That _is_ why we’re both here, after all.”

“I’d be honoured,” Geralt said, because it was true.

“Then it is settled. Thank you for not requesting that I find something to slay for you,” Emhyr said.

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “Hard to imagine you riding out to slay a monster for your beloved.”

“I’m sure the Imperial guard could have managed,” Emhyr said. Geralt wanted to laugh again. That _was_ about as close as Emhyr was likely to get to personally killing a monster.

Although, Geralt knew better than to underestimate him. A man like Emhyr was undoubtedly dangerous in close quarters.

Probably not quite as dangerous as a witcher, but he didn’t really want to test the theory.

Not least of all because Ciri was _more_ dangerous than a witcher, and she wouldn’t have been happy about it.

“I will leave you to finish dressing,” Emhyr said. “The wedding is to take place three days from now. You will be provided with instructions. Please feel free to bumble your way through the entire ceremony, since that will no doubt entertain my would-be challengers.”

Geralt was relieved to have permission, because bumbling his way through was exactly what he expected to end up doing.

Emhyr left him without another word, leaving Geralt to struggle his way into a doublet. He was _sure_ Emhyr not only knew his measurements, but had his clothes made an inch too small on purpose.

Geralt had told himself at first that it was a Nilfgaardian _thing_ to dress in tight-fitting clothes, but he was the only person he’d seen who had to forgo underwear to fit into his.

Thankfully, it’d all be over in three more days.

{~*~}

Geralt had actually memorised every word he was supposed to say for the ceremony by the time it came around, but he made sure to stumble over a few words, swear in both Common and Nilfgaardian when he did, and generally look out of his depth.

“I’d heard you’d performed in a play in Novigrad,” Emhyr said in the carriage on the way back to the palace from the temple. “I hadn’t imagined your acting skills to be so well-developed, however.”

Geralt blinked at him, still coming to terms with the idea that he was married to the goddamn Emperor of Nilfgaard now.

It was probably just as well Vesemir was already dead, because just _hearing_ that might have been enough to kill him.

So much for neutrality.

“How did you know about the play?” Geralt eventually asked.

“I have spies everywhere,” Emhyr said. “And you have proven yourself worth watching. Though that information was more entertaining than useful.”

“How much _do_ you know about me?” Geralt asked, suddenly curious.

“Enough,” Emhyr responded. “Though just barely. I have always felt it a great disadvantage that I cannot anticipate your behaviour, only watch it unfold.”

“You had quarters and a bath prepared for me!” Geralt said, having been _positive_ that Emhyr had just… known he’d agree.

“Because it was possible that you’d agree, and it seemed wise to be prepared for that eventuality. I also had several plans in motion, waiting to be triggered, in case you didn’t.”

Geralt blinked at him.

Huh. Emhyr hadn’t been so sure, after all.

“I wouldn’t have left Ciri in the middle of a mess like that.”

“No,” Emhyr said. “I expected you to take her away,” he added, and there was that… _emotion_ in his voice again.

It hit Geralt that he was only allowed to hear it because Emhyr trusted him. Which probably made him completely unique.

He didn’t even know his own daughter well enough to really _trust_ her. Love her, Geralt was starting to see, but not entirely trust.

Geralt, on the other hand, he could. At least as far as knowing that he would act in Ciri’s best interests without pause.

“So you see, this has been very easy for me to agree to, because the pain of being humiliated at the hands of my enemies is not nearly great enough to overshadow the pain of losing my daughter again. I am… grateful,” Emhyr said, obviously choosing the word carefully.

Geralt glanced out of the carriage at the Nilfgaardian capital, not looking at anything in particular.

He wasn’t sure how to feel about suddenly being Emhyr’s confidante. Somewhere between honoured and afraid.

They both knew this was a convenient fiction to serve the greater good, but…

Emhyr was lonely. It didn’t take a genius to see that. He didn’t _have_ anyone. He was opening up to Geralt because Geralt was literally his only option.

And he probably believed that being legally bound to him meant a lot more than Geralt thought it did. Emhyr was Nilfgaardian. Laws mattered to him in a way they just _didn’t_ to a witcher.

“You’ll be pleased to know that my sommelier has declared your wine more than adequate to be served at a wedding feast,” Emhyr continued after a long silence. “This will make you a very wealthy man.”

“It’ll mean I can expand production at Corvo Bianco and ensure that more people have guaranteed food and shelter,” Geralt responded.

Emhyr was silent for another moment, obviously considering that remark.

“In another life,” he began. “You might have made a very good emperor.”

Geralt snorted. “What _am_ I, by the way?”

“Geralt of Rivia, beloved consort to the Emperor of Nilfgaard,” Emhyr said. “Which will be amended to _former_ Emperor of Nilfgaard tomorrow.”

“Beloved consort,” Geralt repeated, unable to keep the laughter from his voice.

“I thought I should be allowed to derive _some_ enjoyment from our predicament. You will, naturally, be free to return to Toussaint once all the formalities are carried out, with the story that I will be going to join you once Ciri is settled spread among the people.”

“Right. So I should expect to see you in what, twenty years?”

Emhyr smirked, which Geralt had never seen before.

He kind of _liked_ it.

“I wouldn’t leave a candle burning while you await my arrival. It would prove a fire hazard.”

That was fine by Geralt. He really didn’t want the Emperor of Nilfgaard moving in with him.

{~*~}

It hadn’t escaped Geralt’s notice that Emhyr had been drinking a little faster than he should have been at dinner, and he wasn’t sure whether to be insulted or relieved by the time he was being led into the emperor’s private bedchamber, with just the one attendant and the priest from the temple.

“Normally,” Emhyr began. “Producing the bedclothes the next morning would be considered sufficient proof of consummation. However, since this marriage is of some greater legal import than usual, I have consented to allow a representative from the temple to bear witness.”

Which was Emhyr’s way of saying that, despite the fact that he should have been tipsy enough to be fine with this, he was still _nervous_.

Geralt approached him, shooing the attendant who was just starting to free Emhyr from his elaborate ceremonial outfit and taking over the task himself.

Emhyr raised an eyebrow, but didn’t object.

Geralt could feel how tense he was, which, as far as he was concerned, confirmed what he’d come to think about this whole thing while he’d watched Emhyr carefully gauging his level of inebriation to just the other side of completely sober.

Not that he was slurring or wobbling, but he _had_ just barely softened around the edges, his eyes and mouth less hard than they normally were.

It was… appealing, in a way, but it didn’t stop Geralt from knowing what he was now sure he knew.

“You’ve never done this before,” he murmured in Emhyr’s ear.

His heart fluttered at Emhyr’s tiny nod, a surprising wave of compassion washing over him. This was a helluva thing to do for the first time with someone you didn’t especially like.

But then, Emhyr trusted him. Geralt knew he was probably the only person in the empire--or beyond--that Emhyr might even have _considered_ it with.

Which was a strange kind of honour.

“Doesn’t hurt,” Geralt murmured in Emhyr’s ear again, aware that it was maybe a little _too_ intimate for comfort, but not wanting to be overheard. He pushed the heavy ceremonial cloak off Emhyr’s shoulders, and it landed on the floor with a thud.

“Feels good,” he promised, deciding against his better judgement to treat Emhyr like any other lover, and worry about how pissed he’d be over it in the morning.

Right now, he needed a little help to get through this, and Geralt couldn’t bring himself to torture him needlessly. Emhyr, ruthless as he was, had also suffered enough for a dozen lifetimes.

“I have always wanted…” Emhyr said, and Geralt was positive that the last word of that sentence had to be ‘to’, but…

It sounded just a little like _you_.

Maybe Emhyr was starting to slur his words. That would explain it.

That was the only sane, reasonable explanation, so it was the one Geralt was going with.

At least he wasn’t doing this _entirely_ against his will, then, if it was something he’d wanted to try. Hell, this was probably his only chance to do it with someone who wouldn’t use it as leverage later.

Geralt knew enough about Emhyr to know that he probably shouldn’t kiss him on the mouth--he was just as likely to get bitten as anything else. Instead, he dropped a kiss on Emhyr’s shoulder as he revealed the pale skin there, working at undressing him the rest of the way.

A few of the catches made him pause, requiring a few seconds of thought to figure out how to open them, but Emhyr just stood still and let Geralt touch him wherever he needed to.

Which was probably a good sign, since Geralt was about to touch him in _much_ more intimate places.

It occurred to Geralt, belatedly, that Emhyr probably wasn’t used to being touched at all. Under normal circumstances, a hand that touched the emperor was at serious risk of being lopped off by his personal guard.

He backed Emhyr over to the bed and put a hand on his shoulder to encourage him to sit once he was completely undressed, glancing over his broad, strong chest, admiring the faint dusting of dark hair, letting his eyes trail down as far as Emhyr’s navel before averting his gaze and focusing on undressing himself.

Emhyr didn’t even try to make it look like he wasn’t staring directly at Geralt’s cock, but in his defense, it was at more or less eye-level for him.

And he was about to have it inside his body, and he’d never done that before.

He was probably wondering whether or not it could possibly fit without doing permanent damage.

“Oil?” Geralt asked, just loud enough for the priest to hear. He hadn’t forgotten what they were here for, though he was glad to see that the screen was heavy enough that he wouldn’t be able to see through it, even if he was inclined to look.

More for Emhyr’s sake than his own. Geralt had never shied away from having sex where other people could hear or potentially see, but he got the impression Emhyr had.

Emhyr nodded to a bottle of dark amber fluid beside the bed, his jaw tight.

Despite his best efforts, he was probably a little too sober for this.

The size of the bottle of oil was comical--either no one had any idea how much to use, or they thought Emhyr and Geralt were going to spend the next week fucking non-stop. At least they weren’t likely to run out.

Geralt grabbed the bottle with one hand and put his other one on Emhyr’s shoulder, pushing him back to lie on the bed.

Emhyr looked just a little confused, but didn’t fight Geralt’s efforts to get him into position, not even when Geralt hooked a hand under his knee and hauled it up, forcing him to plant his foot flat on the mattress.

Geralt uncorked the bottle with his teeth, turning to spit the cork at the screen.

That earned him the faintest hint of a smile, and he felt, just for a moment, that he and Emhyr were co-conspirators in this, not two people being pushed into something they wouldn’t have chosen for themselves.

Geralt poured oil on his fingers, rubbing them together to warm it up, a small courtesy he suspected Emhyr would appreciate. This was too intimate a thing to even _consider_ making uncomfortable for him.

After a few seconds of circling Emhyr’s entrance and realising that there was no possible universe where he could shove a finger in without hurting him while he was this tense, Geralt backed off to consider his approach.

“You sure you don’t wanna switch?” he asked softly.

Emhyr looked at him like he’d suggested they go and roll around in the mud somewhere.

“Just asking,” Geralt said. He reached out and planted a hand on Emhyr’s belly to steady himself, feeling Emhyr shudder under him at the contact.

Yeah. He really wasn’t used to being touched, that much was obvious.

Geralt sighed, realising what he was going to have to do if this was ever going to happen.

He took a deep breath, then bent down to settle his face between Emhyr’s legs, breathing his scent in out of habit. Geralt wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but there was _something_ about Emhyr that made him hum happily, and he smelled almost startlingly clean, so this wasn’t the actual worst thing Geralt had ever done.

It wasn’t even the least appealing cock he’d sucked.

The strangled sound Emhyr made when Geralt pressed the flat of his tongue to the head of his cock was enough to make Geralt look up.

Emhyr was glaring daggers down at him, which was a new one.

“What?” he asked.

“Do _not_ ,” Emhyr demanded, and that was _also_ a new one, because people usually asked for more. He’d lost count of the number of partners who’d grabbed hold of his hair and held him in place after the first touch of his tongue.

“Why?” Geralt asked, blinking up at Emhyr. He had no idea how to react to being told not to suck someone’s cock.

“It is unseemly for the emperor’s consort to degrade himself so,” Emhyr said, and he was actually _blushing_.

The way his cock was starting to fill with blood implied that he wasn’t all that offended at the apparent degradation.

“Emhyr,” Geralt said slowly. “Has anyone ever used their mouth on you?”

Emhyr’s silence told Geralt more than any actual answer could, and he realised a moment later that Emhyr had spent all of his experimental years as a hedgehog monster, and that probably didn’t translate well into getting his cock sucked.

And somewhere along the line he’d picked up the idea that this was _wrong_ in some bizarre way, and of course, who the hell was going to correct the Emperor of Nilfgaard about something as personal and private as the way he had sex?

Well, Geralt was, but out of sheer annoyance. He _liked_ using his mouth and there was no way he was getting his cock inside Emhyr if he didn’t loosen him up a little first.

“Have you ever-” Geralt cut himself off, deciding that he didn’t want to hear from Emhyr that he’d never used his mouth on anyone, either, because it would be too depressing to handle.

Part of him wanted to laugh. Emhyr var Emreis, ruler of half the world, was about to get his first blowjob at the tender age of… what, fifty?

Emhyr was still glaring at him, and the thing was: Geralt planned on wiping that expression right off his face, because that was the thing he wanted most in the world right now.

Emhyr was going to to come out of this a changed man, whether he knew it or not.

Geralt licked a stripe up Emhyr’s cock without waiting for any further response, nuzzling his way into the nest of soft, dark curls surrounding it, pressing a soft kiss to the base and smirking to himself as he felt it getting hot against his lips, blood rushing south as Emhyr’s body reacted to the sensation.

Emhyr was infuriatingly silent, but he wasn’t going to keep that up for long. The priest from the temple had to _hear_ , after all.

Without telegraphing what he was about to do, Geralt sealed his lips around the head of Emhyr’s cock, hollowing his cheeks to suck hard.

Emhyr only whimpered in response, but it was _something_ , and just enough encouragement for Geralt to keep going.

Rolling the weight of Emhyr’s balls in his oil-slicked hand and feeling back to circle his entrance again, Geralt sucked Emhyr deeper into his mouth, his jaw aching as Emhyr’s cock began to swell with blood.

Either he’d gotten over the idea that this was degrading, or he was into that. Knowing Emhyr, it could easily have been either.

Geralt used his free hand to knead Emhyr’s thigh, stroking his thumb along the ridiculously soft skin there, pausing over a small, thin scar that he hadn’t expected to find. He put a little pressure on it, reminding himself to ask about it later, and returned his focus to the task at hand.

Well, _in mouth_ , mostly. He could feel Emhyr relaxing by degrees, his breathing soft and shallow, his heart pounding in his chest, and the scent of arousal rising off him, finally, instead of the faint hint of fear Geralt had been able to smell earlier.

He hadn’t realised it _was_ fear until it was gone, which shouldn’t have been a surprise. Emhyr never showed fear, why should he obviously smell of it?

A soft, needy moan escaped Emhyr as Geralt finally slipped the tip of his finger inside him, and the salty tang of precome hit his tongue at the same moment. He hummed to himself, letting the sound vibrate on his tongue, deciding that this was the most entertaining way he’d ever had the opportunity to torture Emhyr.

Strong, thick fingers threaded into his hair a moment later, Emhyr gripping a handful of the loosely-tied strands to hold Geralt in place, clearly starting to get the hang of this. Geralt made a soft sound of approval in the back of his throat, making sure Emhyr felt it in his cock.

Geralt had worked a whole finger inside by now, and was about to add a second one, Emhyr relaxing under his touch easily. His fingers tightened in Geralt’s hair as he pressed the tip of the second finger to him, and tugged as he slid it in, but relaxed after a moment as his body accepted it eagerly.

An experimental clench told Geralt that he was getting into _this_ , too, which was just as well. If he’d hated it, Geralt couldn’t have kept going. Not even for Ciri.

Another rush of precome warned Geralt to back off, letting Emhyr’s now-hard cock fall free of his mouth with a pop.

Emhyr glared at him again, and it was the kind of glare Geralt suspected people saw right before being sentenced to immediate and possibly inventive execution.

Emhyr _probably_ wouldn’t do that to his new husband on their wedding night, but Geralt was aware enough of the risk that he curled his fingers around Emhyr’s cock loosely, not enough friction to get him off, but enough to keep him interested.

“Patience,” Geralt said, unable to keep the teasing note out of his voice. He crooked his fingers inside Emhyr, searching for…

A loud cry and a few new-to-Geralt curses in Nilfgaardian told him he’d found what he was looking for.

Emhyr was still glaring, but the look was softened by the way his eyes had glazed over, pupils blown wide, pink tongue darting out to wet his lips.

If he’d known Emhyr was like this when he was aroused, Geralt might have been tempted to try his hand before now. His own cock was hard and throbbing between his legs, begging for attention.

A third finger slipped easily into Emhyr’s body, right up to the hilt, and Geralt knew he was ready for this even without his nod of assent, or the way precome was leaking down his cock. Geralt gave a few more thrusts, testing Emhyr’s limits for any sign of discomfort, and then withdrew his fingers.

“Roll over,” he murmured, getting out of the way so Emhyr could do so and grabbing the bottle of oil that he’d propped up against the headboard.

That probably wasn’t a safe place for it anymore, so once he’d drizzled a generous amount on the small of Emhyr’s back--mostly for the sake of making a mess of him--and onto his own cock, he set it on the floor beside the bed.

Geralt spread the oil on Emhyr’s back downward, working just a little more of it into his body. There _was_ such a thing as too much, but Geralt knew well enough that more oil was comforting the first time.

He couldn’t see Emhyr’s face anymore, but he assumed from the set of his shoulders that the pillow beneath him was being death-glared. Geralt would have shoved another one under his hips, but he remembered what Emhyr had said about the sheets--they could be held up as proof of consummation, so he needed to come on them.

Hell, they were probably going to be stored away in some Nilfgaardian vault somewhere, for posterity.

That should have been somewhere between disgusting and ridiculous, but Geralt kind of liked the idea of there being neatly-recorded proof that he’d made Emhyr come.

He pressed the head of his cock up against Emhyr’s entrance, pausing for a moment to savour the warmth rolling off him, and then pushed forward, biting down on the inside of his cheek to stop himself moaning obscenely as he sank into Emhyr’s welcoming heat with barely any resistance at all.

Emhyr cursed again, breathing harshly as he got used to having Geralt’s cock inside him, but not making any indication that he didn’t like it.

Geralt held his position, waiting for a sign that Emhyr was ready, but he really hadn’t expected to hear, “dammit, witcher, _fuck me_ ,” coming from the goddamn Emperor of Nilfgaard.

All the same, he wasn’t inclined to refuse that particular order. Instead, he gripped the headboard with one hand, and Emhyr’s hip with the other, and took probably the only opportunity he was ever going to have to really, _truly_ fuck Emhyr.

To Geralt’s surprise, Emhyr immediately became both vocal and needy, soft grunts turning into moans, and then into demands-- _harder, there, don’t stop, I said harder--_ and really, he should have known that Emhyr would be just as demanding and impossible to please in bed as he was out of it.

Geralt gave him what he wanted at first, thrusting hard into him, letting himself moan softly as Emhyr pushed back against him, demanding more with his body as well as his voice. Then he slowed his pace, earning himself a frustrated growl, and reached under Emhyr to jerk him off.

Witcher senses came in handy when judging how close a partner was to orgasm, and Geralt could feel Emhyr’s building, the scent of his arousal growing stronger, his heartbeat getting fast and thready, his breath coming in uneven gasps, desperation obvious in every one.

It was comforting to know that when it came to his basest needs, Emhyr was no different to anyone else. He was still weak to having the head of his cock circled, to having the sensitive spot inside him rubbed against, to the unceasing friction of a warm hand around him.

The sound Emhyr made when he finally came was going to be seared into Geralt’s brain for as long as he lived, needy and broken and so utterly _satisfied_ that hearing it was enough to bring Geralt right to the edge, a handful of quick, sharp thrusts all it took to push him over.

His own orgasm tore a groan out of his throat that would definitely serve as proof that he’d fucked Emhyr and come inside him. He rocked through wave after wave of it, biting down on his lip as he finished up, pausing for just a moment before he pulled out to commit this feeling to memory.

The feeling of being the only person to _ever_ come inside Emhyr var Emreis, a feat that seemed unlikely to be repeated.

Emhyr grunted as Geralt pulled out of him, his thighs now trembling with the effort of holding himself up.

All the same, Geralt knew that if he _had_ to, Emhyr could have held that position for a week through sheer willpower.

Geralt _didn’t_ have to, so he rolled to the other side of the unnecessarily enormous bed and spread himself out, panting to catch his breath and basking in the satisfaction of coming his brains out inside arguably the most powerful man in the world.

Emhyr collapsed as well after a handful of heartbeats, another soft grunt escaping him as his back hit the mattress. He was still breathing harshly, but of _course_ he was. He was only human, after all.

And that was a strange thought to have about Emhyr. He’d never seemed more human than he did now, gasping for breath and bathed in the scent of arousal and satisfaction, a rare moment of vulnerability which, Geralt realised, very few people had ever witnessed in him.

It lasted about thirty seconds, before he got up and pulled a robe around his shoulders.

“They need the sheets,” he explained, prompting Geralt to get up with a groan of protest.

He liked to have at least a _few_ minutes of peace after he came. Maybe a little hair-stroking, his own or his partner’s.

“There is a bath waiting,” Emhyr said, and then started walking away.

For want of anything else to do, Geralt trailed after him, ignoring the other robe which, he could now see, had been left for him.

He followed Emhyr all the way into a private bath chamber that made him laugh at the sheer indulgence of.

Another reminder that Emhyr was, after all, _human_ , and liked a comfort or two.

Geralt sank into the water with him, sighing happily at the heat of it. He could get used to this whole _beloved consort_ thing, if it was just fucking and warm baths.

“Think they’ll accept that?”

“They will have little choice in the matter,” Emhyr said, his eyes closed and his head leaning back against the edge of the bath. “Physical proof backed up by an impeccable witness _and_ the word of an emperor is, if anything, overkill.”

Geralt found himself staring at Emhyr, marvelling at the way he’d softened around the edges. How long had it been since he’d gotten laid?

It could have been fifteen years. That was when Pavetta had died, or thereabouts.

Hell, it probably _was_ fifteen years if he still hadn’t figured out oral.

Emhyr var Emreis being practically virginal was a helluva surprise.

“Have you seriously never had your cock sucked before?” Geralt asked, unable to bear wondering if maybe Emhyr had played him any longer.

The look Emhyr gave him, though, was confirmation enough. It was the closest to embarrassed he’d ever seen the man.

“No,” he said, apparently not about to elaborate.

“Wow,” Geralt said, hardly able to believe it.

“If you wish to mock me,” Emhyr said. “Now is probably the best time. Even if I were inclined to execute you for it, my hands are tied.”

“No mocking,” Geralt promised, another little wave of compassion washing over him. Emhyr was even more complicated than he’d imagined. “If you ask me, the sex was pretty good.”

“I did not,” Emhyr said, though his normal level of coolness wasn’t quite back in place yet.

They fell into a comfortable silence, Geralt letting himself fall into a half-doze in the warm water, fairly confident that if he fell asleep, he’d either wake by himself, or Emhyr would have the good grace to stop him from drowning.

When he opened his eyes again, Emhyr was gone, and the same attendant he’d shooed earlier was waiting by the bath for him.

He sighed, climbing out and accepting a towel, and then a robe, and then a gentle nudge back toward his own quarters, only glancing over at Emhyr’s bed on the way past to see him curled up on his side, fast asleep.

Geralt ignored the impulse to ask if he could sleep in Emhyr’s bed instead, because it was _ridiculous_ , and possibly a hanging offence.

{~*~}

Geralt was awoken the next morning just as the sun was rising, urged to get dressed, and then dragged to Emhyr’s chambers.

For, as it turned out, breakfast.

He was starving, so he didn’t really see the point in objecting.

It became obvious quickly that Emhyr was starving too, or maybe he _always_ ate breakfast like he hadn’t seen food in a week. Geralt didn’t really have a frame of reference to work from, and he wasn’t sure why he was getting this glimpse into what was obviously a private affair for Emhyr.

Eating alone made sense, of course. Being _alone_ meant fewer people could poison your drink while you weren’t looking.

Emhyr had waved away everyone else in the room, so he was _almost_ alone, anyway, and he didn’t have to fear that Geralt might poison him.

If Geralt had ever actually wanted him dead, his bones would have been dust by now.

“I have made a mistake,” Emhyr said once he was finished eating, which were the first words he’d said directly to Geralt all morning.

It might also have been the first time Emhyr had said those particular words in that particular order. He wasn’t the kind of man who made mistakes.

Geralt looked up at him with interest over the rim of his distressingly delicate teacup, which had a pleasant floral blend in it.

Emhyr was silent for a moment, but it was clearly because he was deciding on how to order his next words.

“I had assumed that taking a submissive position when engaging in coitus with another man was something to be endured, rather than… enjoyed,” he said.

Geralt forced himself to swallow his mouthful of tea instead of spitting it out in surprise.

Emhyr, however, didn’t stop there. “I would like to request a repeat performance, minus the audience. I will only ask once.”

Of course he’d only ask once. Emperors didn’t beg.

Geralt already knew he was going to agree, though. His curiosity wouldn’t let him do anything other than see where this was headed.

His cock was into the idea as well, since Emhyr had proved… satisfying. And there was more Geralt wanted to know about the limits of his experience.

“Sure,” Geralt said, sipping his tea again.

Emhyr shot him a surprised glance, but it only lasted for a moment. “Very well. You will be sent for tonight.”

Geralt barely stopped himself from laughing at the idea that Emhyr was going to _send_ for him for sex. Not only that, but he was going to go _along_ with it.

“Aren’t you sore?” Geralt asked. He hadn’t exactly been delicate with Emhyr after the initial prepwork. Not that he’d _intended_ to hurt him, but it was his first time, and he was bound to be feeling it this morning.

“Exquisitely,” Emhyr said, shifting almost imperceptibly where he was sitting. “But as I have been inspired to bring myself to completion twice since you left me last night, I do not anticipate this being a problem.”

Geralt choked on his tea.

Emhyr barely reacted, except to give him the briefest look of concern as Geralt thumped his own chest.

“Okay,” he said. “Tonight, then.”

“When you are done eating,” Emhyr said, as though Geralt hadn’t been done for a while. “You will dress. I require you at my side when I abdicate.”

“Why?” Geralt asked automatically.

“Because I require your consent to do it,” Emhyr responded. He sounded about as thrilled by that as Geralt would have expected. “I imagine this will not be a problem.”

“Obviously,” Geralt said. “It’s what Ciri wants.”

“It is what is necessary for Cirilla’s uneventful reign,” Emhyr corrected. “I doubt she expected to be thrust into power quite so quickly.”

“She’ll handle it,” Geralt said, sure that was true. Ciri had defeated the White Frost by herself. She could do anything.

“Of course she will,” Emhyr scoffed. “She is my daughter.”

He paused for a moment, and then looked at Geralt. “And yours,” he added, with a small, tight nod.

Geralt’s chest constricted at the acknowledgement. Emhyr would have had every right to be bitter that Geralt had taken his child away from him, but he’d chosen to accept that Geralt had been the best person to care for her when half the world had been interested in killing her or having her as their own.

Not only half of _this_ world, either.

“She is also her grandfather’s grandchild,” Emhyr said wryly. “But witchers have long natural lifespans, do they not?”

“Sure,” Geralt said. “Few hundred years, at least, if nothing gets us first.”

He didn’t see much point in adding that _something_ usually did.

Emhyr nodded. “Then you will be here for her even after I am long gone. Good.”

That was approximately the moment when Geralt realised he could never _really_ go back to the Path.

Ciri was still telling her story. It was his job to see it through.

Even if he did that at a distance, he couldn’t go getting himself killed by stumbling into a nekker nest that was just a little _too_ big for him to walk away from.

“I should get dressed,” he said after a moment, though he _was_ dressed. Emhyr had implied that he wasn’t dressed _enough_ , and he assumed someone would explain to him exactly what he needed to do.

“I will await you in my office,” Emhyr said, back to his usual self as though he hadn’t invited Geralt to breakfast to proposition him.

Geralt walked away with his head spinning, but excitement flaring in his gut. Emhyr wanted him again, despite the fact that he didn’t _have_ to this time.

That was one hell of a turn of events.

{~*~}

“Geralt, I have no right to ask this of you, but…”

“I’ll stick around a while,” Geralt said before Ciri could finished asking the question. Emhyr had signed the papers. He’d pointed to where Geralt had to sign the papers, too, and that had been _weird_.

He’d gotten out of one of the many, many officials hanging around that Emhyr’s abdication would have been grounds for divorce, and Geralt could have taken half of everything he had.

Which only made the whole thing feel even stranger, because Geralt could have just walked away with half of Emhyr’s not-inconsiderable personal fortune, as the same gossiping official had described it, if he’d wanted to.

He even had the implicit offer of help doing it.

But it didn’t occur to him until much later that he really _could_ have, and Emhyr couldn’t have stopped him.

Emhyr had been so sure Geralt wouldn’t do it that he hadn’t even seen fit to mention the possibility and warn him against it.

“You will?” Ciri asked, clearly surprised that it didn’t take any more convincing.

Geralt couldn’t exactly say that it was easy to convince him because he was wondering how many times Emhyr would let him fuck him.

Besides, that wasn’t his only reason. Ciri needed support, and not _just_ Emhyr’s.

She needed Geralt, too, and he was only now coming to accept that. That he might be useful even to an empress.

“Of course,” Geralt said. “Firstly, it’s my legal duty to torture Emhyr now.”

“You said you wouldn’t fight,” Ciri reminded him.

“Are we fighting?” Geralt asked, raising an eyebrow. “I have other ways of torturing him.”

“Is that why you two had breakfast together this morning? _Alone_?” Ciri asked, a smile playing around her lips.

“How did you-”

“I have my spies,” Ciri said, a perfect imitation of her father if not for the grin plastered across her face. “People are very eager to be on my good side all of a sudden. I can’t imagine why.”

Geralt snorted. “You’re gonna be good at this,” he said. “I can’t promise I’ll stay forever, but… I’ll be here a while. At least until after your coronation.”

Ciri wrapped her arms tightly around Geralt, and for once, not a single guard even _twitched_ at him putting his hands on her.

They’d also been calling him _your majesty_ all morning, which was new, and weird, and not something Geralt was sure he liked.

But they’d finally decided that Ciri was _really_ his, and he wasn’t just yet another mercenary hired to bring her home. Which meant he was allowed to hug her in public, without Emhyr having to give his nod of approval.

Not that he was in a position to do that anymore. Which was _also_ weird.

An advisor cleared her throat beside Ciri, and Geralt realised that his little girl suddenly had a thousand more responsibilities. He let her go, stepping away and watching as she listened closely to the woman talking to her, nodding her understanding and responding in appropriate places, calmly and wisely.

Emhyr appeared at his side, close enough for their shoulders to brush together.

“They will love her as much as they have feared me,” he said softly.

“Everyone who meets her does,” Geralt said. “There’s just… something wonderful about her.”

Emhyr made a soft sound of agreement, and then fell silent again for another dozen heartbeats.

“I have changed my mind about tonight,” he said, and Geralt’s heart sank.

He wasn’t sure how to process that reaction--he really shouldn’t have _cared_ \--but he hated the feeling of having a door closed on him.

“That is to say,” Emhyr continued. “That I would value company… now. Your company, specifically.”

Geralt cleared his throat.

Ciri was obviously occupied, and sham or not, he _was_ married to Emhyr, and this had to be a difficult moment for him. Geralt had never been good at leaving even the worst people to suffer alone, and Emhyr was far from the worst person he’d ever encountered.

“Sure,” he said. “Lead on.”

{~*~}

When Emhyr had said _company_ , Geralt had heard _sexual attention_ , but Emhyr had actually meant company in the traditional sense.

As soon as they’d been alone behind closed doors, he’d poured two glasses of a richly-scented herbal spirit and passed one to Geralt before settling down on a long couch and sinking deeply into the plush cushions.

Geralt sat next to him, figuring that he had every right.

He watched Emhyr down the whole glass in one mouthful and then pour himself another.

“You never told me I could divorce you for abdicating,” Geralt said.

“Are you planning to?” Emhyr asked.

“No.” Geralt shook his head. “What would I stand to gain?”

“About five million florens,” Emhyr said.

Geralt's jaw dropped. “That's _half_ of what you're worth?”

“Good grief no,” Emhyr said. “That is the offer I would open with to make you simply _go away_ , and I would consider I was getting off cheap, and the sum would seem so much to you that it would never occur to you to do anything other than agree.”

“You had a plan for it if I did?” Geralt asked, not even willing to _think_ about the sheer size of Emhyr's personal fortune.

“Only because I cannot help conceiving them,” Emhyr responded calmly. “There is no greed in you at all. You might have asked me for more or less anything as a wedding gift, and yet you accepted a wood carving. And the work of an amateur at that.”

Emhyr wasn't exactly wrong. Geralt was only ever interested in having enough money to survive and occasionally enjoy himself.

And now he was sitting around in a goddamn _palace_ , and he owned a suddenly wildly successful vineyard, so what the hell did he need Emhyr’s money for?

“Besides,” Emhyr continued. “You are quite independently wealthy yourself, now. Not least of all because I bought the remainder of your wine stocks for the season.”

“You could have _had_ them,” Geralt said, and he meant it. Emhyr could simply have _asked_.

Emhyr chuckled, but it was probably because he was halfway through his second glass of whatever they were drinking.

All the same, Geralt was starting to _like_ this more relaxed Emhyr.

“Not a single ounce of avarice,” Emhyr said. “You are truly remarkable.”

“What are you even gonna _do_ with all my wine?”

“There were only ten barrels still available,” Emhyr said. “I had planned to drink it. It really is very good.”

“You _have_ to have access to better wine than that.”

“Better is relative. I like yours. It's exceptionally easy to drink, and I have little else to do, as of today.”

Geralt wet his lips, remembering the smell of his own wine on Emhyr’s breath as he’d undressed him last night.

“How’d you even get word to Toussaint so fast?”

“Megascope, obviously. How do you think long-distance trade is usually conducted?”

Geralt had never given a single second of thought to it before now, so he accepted Emhyr’s word that it was the usual way.

He took the opportunity to sip the herbal spirit, which was definitely _intended_ to be sipped.

Emhyr was already most of the way through his second glass of liquid courage, and clearly working up to something.

Something he wanted from Geralt, obviously.

“Take your word for it,” Geralt said. “How’s it feel not to be emperor anymore?”

“Complicated,” Emhyr said, actually sipping his drink this time.

“I'm listening,” Geralt offered, because it wasn't like Emhyr had anyone else to listen to him, and it wasn't like Geralt had anything better to do.

Emhyr sighed an almost imperceptible sigh, and at first Geralt thought he was going to ignore him.

Then he drew a breath to speak.

“I have survived my reign and passed the throne on to my own child,” Emhyr said. “Quite a feat for a Nilfgaardian emperor. And yet…”

Geralt remained silent, waiting to see if Emhyr would continue on his own.

“I am not _old_. I could still have served,” he said, his jaw tensing so hard that Geralt could hear his teeth grinding.

And _that_ feeling, he understood. Witchers were becoming obsolete. The worst of the danger from post-conjunction creatures had passed, and he was one of maybe half a dozen remaining witchers in the world, and probably the only one not struggling to get by right now.

Well, except for Lambert, who was trying out the whole sorceress thing. They had a taste for pet witchers. He’d be well looked after.

Not quite as well looked after as getting married to the now-former emperor of half the civilised world, but still.

“Yeah,” Geralt agreed. “Retirement isn't everything it's cracked up to be for me, either. But I'm running out of monsters to die trying to kill.”

Emhyr nodded, still obviously fuming. And Geralt knew he was proud of Ciri and had wanted her to take the throne, but he hadn't wanted to be forced off it, either. He’d won the war in the North, but at the cost of pushing several powerful men to their limits in terms of what they’d put up with from him.

He had to have known he was doing it at the time, but he’d been backed into a corner. A third failed campaign would have seen him a bloody smear on the throne room floor.

This had been his best possible exit strategy, but he wasn't a man who liked to have his hand forced.

“What do they do with the sheets?” Geralt asked, his mind leaping ahead three steps to wonder what people were saying about him, decide he didn't care, and then remember that having to prove he let a witcher fuck him--even though, or perhaps especially since, he’d enjoyed it--was probably grating on him as well.

“File them with the other marriage papers so that no one can have it annulled later by claiming non-consummation,” Emhyr said. “Annulment would mean that Ciri’s status as a legitimate heir went back into question, which would be disastrous for her once she took the throne.”

So Geralt had been _right_ about them being stored away in a vault. Nilfgaardians sure did love paperwork.

On a whim, Geralt reached out and brushed his fingertips over Emhyr's hand where it was resting by his side.

Emhyr turned to look at him instantly, eyes sharp.

“No one ever touches you,” Geralt said, having confirmed his theory beyond all doubt, in his own mind.

“Cirilla hugged me once,” Emhyr said. “I believe the experience was so unpleasant for her that she never tried again.”

“Probably because you stood stiff as a board and waited for it to be over.”

Emhyr was silent for a moment, and then, softly, “I had never been hugged before,” he said.

Geralt's mouth fell open.

He set his glass down on the table in front of them and stood.

“Get up,” he said.

Emhyr gave him the familiar _you can't give me orders_ look that Geralt had seen a dozen times before, and which had never worked.

Besides, now he _could_ give Emhyr orders. Marriage made them equals even under Nilfgaardian law, and Emhyr wasn't emperor anymore. He was an ordinary man.

Or at least, as ordinary as he was ever going to be.

“Stand up,” Geralt said, more gently this time. “And I'll teach you how to hug your daughter.”

Emhyr raised an eyebrow, but after another moment, sighed, set his glass down, and stood.

Geralt moved in front of him, and then, with his stomach swooping, wrapped his arms around Emhyr.

As predicted, Emhyr stood perfectly still. If anything, he tightened up, unused to contact like this.

All the same, Geralt had no intention of failing here. Emhyr would hug, and he would _like_ it, and maybe Ciri would get the relationship she deserved with him after all.

Geralt kept his hold on Emhyr, fighting against the urge to let go--because yeah, right now, this _was_ an unpleasant experience.

But after another handful of heartbeats, the tiniest, softest sigh escaped Emhyr’s chest, and he relaxed into the hold.

“There you go,” Geralt said. “Not so bad, huh?”

Emhyr was stubbornly silent, but he didn't make any move to break free.

Eventually, his arms came up around Geralt's back, and he squeezed experimentally. His grip tightened after another moment, and he shuffled just the tiniest bit closer, and Geralt had never experienced to think of Emhyr var Emreis as _sweet_ , but…

This was surprisingly sweet. The innocence of it made Geralt's heart clench.

The thought that Emhyr had never had something so simple as a _hug_ before made him feel vaguely ill.

“Stop me if this is too personal, but how come Pavetta…”

“She loved me,” Emhyr said. “But even after the curse was broken, she could still feel the quills. Because of her powers, you see?”

“I see,” Geralt said, and he was _surprised_ by that information, but not entirely shocked. He’d seen what Ciri could do, and he’d also seen how unpredictable it had been in the beginning. Pavetta had never had the training Ciri had.

“And she still loved me regardless,” Emhyr said softly. “I did not deserve her. And I do not deserve Cirilla.”

“She chose you,” Geralt murmured. “They both did.”

Emhyr sighed again, and then did something that really _did_ shock Geralt.

He turned his head and rested it against Geralt’s shoulder.

And at least a few hundred people had done that in his life, and yet _this_ time, it was different. For a moment, it was as though _he’d_ never been hugged before.

“I begin to see the appeal,” Emhyr said, still making no attempt to move.

“Ciri could probably use a hug. Do you remember how stressful your first week as emperor was?”

“There were rather more executions,” Emhyr said. “But I take your point.”

He backed off a step, meeting Geralt’s gaze and holding it for three heartbeats. “Take me to bed.”

{~*~}

Geralt opened Emhyr up with his mouth first this time, and Emhyr didn’t even make the slightest _murmur_ about it being degrading.

Probably because he was too busy coming all over himself halfway through to really form much of a thought.

That was, more than anything, what Geralt liked about this. Reducing Emhyr to a point where he was all _feeling_ , where he couldn’t scheme or plot or _think_ with that magnificent strategic mind of his. That Geralt could bring Emhyr var Emreis, Emperor of Nilfgaard etc., to his knees.

Literally and figuratively.

He sank into Emhyr’s body with a content sigh, planning, _this_ time, to show him what he meant by witcher stamina.

To Geralt’s surprise, Emhyr wasn’t nearly as reluctant to make noise this time. He started out with soft cries of pleasure as Geralt grazed the sensitive spot inside him, curling his fingers around Emhyr’s cock to encourage it to harden again, determined to get him off at least twice.

Remembering his thought from before, Geralt shoved a pillow under Emhyr’s hips, easing him down into it, moving to kneel behind him. He kept his strokes slow and even, making sure Emhyr felt every inch of his cock inside him, knowing how damned _good_ it felt when someone took the time to do that.

Emhyr had asked for this, this time. It would have been rude to give him anything less than his best.

Being rude to Emhyr was one of Geralt’s favourite hobbies, but he was willing to set that aside for now in the interest of making him come so hard he passed out.

“Witcher,” Emhyr gritted out, his voice wrecked, and Geralt wasn’t sure if it was a curse, or a plea, or just Emhyr reminding himself of what Geralt _was_.

Either way, Geralt liked the sound of it.

It took Geralt by surprise when Emhyr came, a defeated groan escaping him as he clenched around Geralt’s cock, and that was enough to make Geralt follow him over the edge, the white-hot rush of his orgasm flowing through him and into Emhyr, and _that_ wasn’t going to get any less hot anytime soon.

He rocked his hips through the last few waves of pleasure, drawing soft little cries from Emhyr as he brushed against oversensitive skin, and then pulled out and sat back, taking a moment to admire the view.

The scar on the inside of Emhyr’s thigh caught his attention again, and he reached out to trace it with his finger. Emhyr wasn’t the kind of man who was covered in scars, so this one stood out.

“Assassination attempt,” Emhyr murmured.

Geralt didn’t point out that it was a _very_ intimate way to try to assassinate someone, and equally well-placed.

“Almost got you,” he said instead.

“He wasn’t fast enough,” Emhyr said calmly. “And yes, witcher, it was more or less as you’re thinking. While I was still cursed. It did a great deal to limit my interest in men from then on.”

“Did you care about him?” Geralt asked, aware that he was more or less literally poking an old wound.

“Yes,” Emhyr responded. “I have since learned my lesson.”

Geralt wasn’t exactly sure what lesson that _was_ , but he suspected it involved Emhyr shutting himself off from all human contact that wasn’t necessary for him to do his job.

He was the kind of man who saw caring as a weakness.

Geralt, on the other hand, knew it was a strength.

“If it’s any comfort, I’d be faster,” Geralt said, letting himself collapse on the mattress beside Emhyr.

“It is,” Emhyr said. “If you are planning to betray me, I’d prefer to be dead before I know about it. I’m not sure I could handle the embarrassment.”

“Because you trust me,” Geralt said, knowing for certain it was true.

“Indeed.” Emhyr sighed, turning onto his side to face Geralt, tossing the pillow he’d been propped up on onto the floor.

There were plenty more on the bed, so it wasn’t much of a loss. Geralt wasn’t sure how Emhyr slept among all these pillows without suffocating himself.

“Am I making a mistake?” Emhyr asked, suddenly cautious.

“No,” Geralt responded automatically. Emhyr really didn’t have anything to fear from him except that he’d continue to be infuriating and difficult until one of them died.

Which, he was starting to suspect, Emhyr actually _liked_ about him. No one else could be seen getting away with Geralt’s behaviour, but Geralt had always been a special case, and maybe Emhyr liked to feel normal every now and again.

“I overheard you telling Ciri you’d stay until her coronation,” Emhyr began.

Geralt smiled at him calling her _Ciri_. She’d like that.

“That’s the plan,” Geralt said.

“And then?”

Geralt shrugged. “Dunno.”

Emhyr snorted. “I wonder what it must be like to live one’s life without ever planning much more than a few days ahead.”

“Hey,” Geralt objected. “I can plan up to about two weeks. If I’m travelling that far.”

“I’ve underestimated your strategic abilities,” Emhyr said, and Geralt _knew_ he was being teased, and he couldn’t stop himself from smiling at it.

“My entire life strategy has been to keep doing what’s working until it stops,” Geralt said. “It’s kept me alive for almost a hundred years, so…”

“A hundred?” Emhyr’s eyes widened. “I imagined… my impression was that you were my age.”

“I thought you knew everything about me,” Geralt said, surprised that Emhyr _didn’t_ know that.

“It never occurred to me to wonder,” Emhyr said. “A mistake, I admit, though it does explain many things.”

Geralt let his eyes fall closed, satisfaction seeping into his bones and encouraging him to take a nap.

“You may sleep here,” Emhyr said softly. “But I must warn you that I rarely sleep peacefully.”

“Few people I’ve shared a bed with do,” Geralt murmured. He was drawn to people who’d had difficult lives. Not that people who’d had difficult lives were hard to find.

Emhyr hummed, a sound that confirmed he understood, and that was the last thing Geralt was aware of before he fell asleep.

{~*~}

The look on Ciri’s face as Emhyr hugged her was priceless. Her eyes were so wide they looked like they might pop out of her head as she stared at Geralt over her father's shoulder, incomprehension written all over her features.

Emhyr, as it turned out, had _not_ slept peacefully.

Geralt had woken to the sound of unfamiliar sobbing and taken several seconds to pinpoint the source as _Emhyr_.

So he’d reached out to hold him, thinking he was asleep, and realised a moment too late that he _wasn't_.

The look Emhyr had given him told Geralt they weren't going to talk about it, probably ever, but Geralt couldn't stop thinking about it, either.

The thing that he couldn't stop thinking about, in particular, was that Emhyr had known that might happen. He’d even _warned_ Geralt about it, though Geralt had assumed he meant he was prone to tossing and turning.

Not waking up in tears.

It was almost a surprise that Emhyr was physically capable of crying.

He couldn't help it, Geralt knew. He’d come across people who had horrific nightmares before, and he’d had a few in his own time as well.

Ciri had them, even. He’d assumed that came from her powers, from her mother's side, but…

Maybe not. Maybe her carefully-controlled bloodline included a tendency to wake up in tears.

Emhyr wasn't just _anyone_ , after all. There was elven blood in his line, too.

The important part was that he’d allowed Geralt to see him like that, which he suspected made him one of a very small number of people who had, and probably the only one living.

“What did you _do_ to him?” Ciri asked later, once Emhyr was out of earshot.

“Uh,” Geralt began, scratching the back of his neck nervously.

Ciri's eyes widened. “Changed my mind, don't want to know,” she said, staring openly at Geralt.

“Really, though?” she asked a moment later. “You and… and Emhyr?”

“We are _married_ ,” Geralt said, shrugging. “He’s lonely,” he added, as though that explained everything. As though he was in the habit of screwing every lonely person he came across.

Well.

 _More_ in the habit.

“Yes but… _Emhyr_ ,” Ciri said. “He’s like a less pretty, harder to get along with Yennefer.”

“Ooh, don't let him hear you say that,” Geralt warned. Emhyr wouldn't have liked that comparison at all.

Even if it was more or less accurate.

“I'm Empress of Nilfgaard,” she said. “And he can't stop me.”

“You're not empress for another few days,” Geralt reminded her. “And no, he can't stop you, but… he’s trying.”

“Extremely,” Ciri said. “You put him up to hugging me, didn't you?”

Geralt nodded, not sure whether or not to tell Ciri that he’d had to teach him how, as well.

That seemed too private a thing to share, even with his daughter.

“He just needed a nudge,” Geralt said, not entirely sure why he was suddenly _defending_ Emhyr, who was more than capable of defending himself. “I think he wants to be a good father. He didn’t get much of a chance.”

“That was his own doing,” Ciri pointed out.

“Partly,” Geralt agreed. “But not entirely. Sometimes things just… happen. Whether or not want to give him a chance is up to you, but he seems sincere in _wanting_ one. This is as hard a time for him as it is for you.”

“Anyone would think you were starting to _like_ him,” Ciri said, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s more complicated than that,” Geralt said, because he didn’t _like_ Emhyr, not really, but he didn’t hate him, either, and he suddenly had a whole lot of other feelings toward him that he’d never expected to have. Pity, compassion, even a little empathy for where he was at in his life.

They’d both gotten Ciri to where she was meant to be, and now she could handle herself, and what the hell were they supposed to do with their lives now? She’d been the centre of Geralt’s for the past fifteen years, give or take a few of being dead.

She’d been the centre of Emhyr’s world for twenty-one, and he’d spent most of that time losing her over and over.

No _wonder_ he had nightmares.

“I’ll think about it,” Ciri said, which Geralt knew meant that she _would_ give him a chance to redeem himself. “You know he timed this wedding and his abdication to stop one of his political rivals passing legislation in time for it to be any good to him.”

He hadn’t known that, but it certainly didn’t _surprise_ Geralt.

“Sounds like Emhyr.” He shrugged.

“I don’t know if I can do it,” Ciri said. “Be like him.”

“You don’t have to be,” Geralt responded automatically, remembering what Emhyr had said about the people loving Ciri as much as they’d feared him. “He’s done everything in his power to make it so that you can rule with kindness.”

Geralt hadn’t thought of it in those terms until he’d said it aloud, but that _was_ what Emhyr had done. He’d even stepped down quietly, without a fuss and giving his enemies what they wanted, because that meant Ciri wouldn’t feel the brunt of their ire.

Complicated wasn’t really enough of a word to describe Emhyr. Labyrinthine was more like it.

Every time Geralt thought he’d figured out even a tiny fraction of what he was like, _really_ like, something else came along and showed him that he’d been all wrong.

Maybe _that_ was the appeal. Geralt liked solving puzzles, and Emhyr was the ultimate puzzle.

“You’ll be at dinner tonight, won’t you?” Ciri asked, and Geralt vaguely remembered Emhyr mentioning that he wanted the three of them to eat together.

“Sure, yeah,” Geralt said, not about to pass up the chance to spend more time with Ciri. Her time for him was about to be severely limited, so he wanted to make the most of what he could get before that happened.

“Then I’ll see you later,” she said, right as the advisor Geralt had seen her with the other day approached. “Tell Emhyr…” she began, and then hesitated. “No, I’ll tell him myself.”

Geralt smiled, proud of the young woman Ciri had grown up into. “See you later,” he promised, backing away as Ciri turned her attention to her advisor.

{~*~}

Geralt had sensed Emhyr watching him train about ten minutes ago, and he’d expected the other man to either interrupt or get bored, but that hadn’t happened.

He was just… _watching_. Like he had nothing better to do.

Of course, he probably _didn’t_ have anything better to do. State affairs were shut down while they were between rulers. Paperwork was Ciri’s job now, or would be soon in any case.

And it wasn’t as though he’d ever had time to have hobbies of his own, so…

Apparently, Geralt was his new hobby.

Which Geralt didn’t mind nearly as much as he thought he should have.

“Is it true that witchers can control minds?” Emhyr asked while Geralt was taking a break, approaching cautiously.

“Uh,” Geralt began, not sure how to explain. “Weak minds, and only for a few seconds. It’s more like… I can put words in people’s mouths and make them believe they meant them, and I can confuse animals and monsters, or calm them. Some witchers are better at it than me,” he added, thinking of Eskel especially, but he also suspected Letho was good with Axii.

“Many animals are not difficult to confuse,” Emhyr said. “And I have often put words in someone else’s mouth and made them believe they were their idea.”

Geralt shrugged. “I didn’t say it was anything special. It’s gotten me out of a few tough spots.”

“Do it to me,” Emhyr said.

Geralt blinked at him. Why the hell…?

A few more seconds of thought told him _exactly_ why. Emhyr had let him get too close without even considering that Geralt might not have been a powerful sorcerer, but he did have _some_ command of magic.

And Emhyr wanted to know how strong that magic was, and whether it could be used against him in ways other than, say, setting his robe on fire.

“You sure about this?” Geralt asked.

He was pretty confident that trying this on Emhyr would have little to no effect.

“Indulge me,” Emhyr said, without showing even the faintest hint of hesitation.

Geralt shrugged.

“You want to pick me a rose from the garden,” Geralt said, performing the sign.

Emhyr’s jaw clenched, his eyes hardening. The sign hadn’t just glanced off him, that much was obvious, but it didn’t seem like it took a whole lot to resist, either.

Which was honestly a stronger effect than Geralt had been expecting. Emhyr had a mind like a steel trap.

“I see,” Emhyr said after a moment. “That is… unpleasant.”

“Sorry.” Geralt shrugged.

“I asked you to do it,” Emhyr responded. “But I am now sure that you couldn’t influence me without my noticing. Not by magic, in any case.”

“Told you, weak minds only. You’re a lot of things, but weak-minded isn’t one of them.”

Emhyr hummed in agreement, and then reached out.

Before Geralt could figure out what was happening, Emhyr had closed the gap between them and was pressing his lips to Geralt’s.

The kiss was clumsy and unpracticed, but Emhyr’s enthusiasm made up for what he lacked in technique, and once Geralt was over the initial shock he eased control of it away from him. Geralt parted his lips, just a little way, darting his tongue out to lap at the seam of Emhyr’s.

His heart fluttered as they parted for him, and the rest of Emhyr’s reasons for wanting Geralt to try Axii on him fell into place.

He couldn’t allow himself simple affection with someone who could be dangerous to him, even though he’d trusted Geralt so far.

He’d trusted him because up until now, everything had been about Ciri. _This_ , this was about Emhyr, and Emhyr alone, and he had to know that even if he didn’t exactly have Geralt’s undying loyalty the way his daughter did, at least Geralt couldn’t _hurt_ him.

He needed Geralt to be safe, because he wanted to be vulnerable around him.

The kiss broke as suddenly as it had started, leaving Geralt licking his lips to memorise the taste of Emhyr’s mouth.

And because Geralt was a colossal idiot, he could feel some part of his heart opening up to Emhyr.

Which was both terrifying and an extremely bad idea, but Geralt had never let those things stop him before.

Without giving himself enough time to talk himself out of it, Geralt pushed Emhyr up against a column behind him and kissed him again, _really_ taking control this time, coaxing Emhyr to open up under him, sucking on his tongue when he finally managed to encourage him to _use_ it.

He could feel Emhyr blushing under the palm of his hand, and that was surprisingly hot, and Geralt could already tell he was in way over his head, but he wasn’t inclined to _stop_ , either.

It wasn’t as though this was the kind of opportunity that came along every day, and he might as well enjoy it while it lasted.

Emhyr was breathing hard when the kiss broke, his chest heaving and his eyes glazed.

“Oh,” he said after a moment, blinking at Geralt.

He was _dazed_ , which gave Geralt a giddy little thrill. How many people could leave Emhyr speechless?

“I see I have much to learn,” Emhyr said after a moment, his voice so even and deliberate that it completely gave away just how flustered he was. “But I have always been a quick study.”

“I don't doubt it,” Geralt said, and he really didn't. Once Emhyr got his bearings, once he really _applied_ himself to whatever he was trying to do here, he’d master it quickly.

And then _Geralt_ would be fucked, probably.

Possibly literally, which he didn't hate the idea of at all. If this… whatever it was that Emhyr was doing kept him occupied, Geralt wasn't inclined to stop him. It beat having a sulking former emperor stomping around and making people nervous.

He might have wanted the best for Ciri, but keeping him out of the way while she decided how she wanted to run things wasn't something Emhyr could do himself. He couldn't _help_ scheming and meddling.

Geralt could distract him, though, and get laid regularly in the process.

Win-win.

“Got a few hours before dinner,” Geralt said. “Wanna take this inside?”

Emhyr nodded, and outwardly he looked perfectly calm, but Geralt could hear his heart racing.

Yeah, he could have a _lot_ of fun with whatever was going on between them.

{~*~}

Geralt managed to fuck Emhyr twice before dinner and leave him without enough time to bathe properly after, so despite Emhyr's best attempts, Geralt could still smell himself on the former emperor of Nilfgaard as he sipped his wine--Geralt’s wine, actually--and pretended that he wasn't even slightly ruffled by any of it.

“This is from your vineyard?” Ciri asked, oblivious to the silent goings-on between her two fathers.

“Yeah, it is,” Geralt responded, allowing himself to show just a little pride. “You like it?”

“It's good,” Ciri agreed, and then glanced at Emhyr. “But I don't know much about wine…”

“It is actually very good,” Emhyr said. “Complex,” he added. “But not inaccessible to the average palate.”

Ciri nodded, obviously taking that to heart.

“A wine for the people,” Geralt said, smiling to himself.

“Quite,” Emhyr agreed. “Though my sommelier will tell you that my tastes are not overly refined, either.”

Ciri stared at him, mouth hanging open.

Even Geralt raised an eyebrow.

“You forget that I spent a significant portion of my life living on rats,” Emhyr said, and Geralt realised that he had, almost, forgotten. Even though Emhyr had reminded him a few times now.

He just seemed like a completely different person.

And, Geralt realised, that was because he _wanted_ to seem that way. But slowly, he was letting Geralt see the parts of him that were still a frightened, helpless young man all alone in the world.

Well, not quite helpless. Emhyr had probably been smart enough to be a nightmare for everyone around him even at thirteen, but that had been _all_ he had when he was first left to fend for himself.

Even Geralt had a warm bed, thick walls, and a guaranteed meal at thirteen.

“They're not so bad,” Ciri said, but Geralt could see her softening just a little.

“You fed her _rats_?” Emhyr asked, turning on Geralt.

“What? No,” he said, or at least he didn't _remember_ doing that.

“He didn't,” Ciri confirmed. “Geralt was always quick to go without to make sure I had enough.”

Emhyr hummed. “This does not surprise me,” he said, with something that almost felt like _warmth_ in his voice.

Judging by the look on Ciri’s face, she’d heard it, too.

Thankfully, the conversation turned to more neutral subjects, and Geralt didn't have to sit around feeling like Emhyr was… _proud_ , maybe, of him, for any longer than necessary.

When they were done and had all said goodnight to each other--Emhyr hugging Ciri again--Geralt followed Emhyr automatically back to his rooms.

He didn't really think about what he’d done until Emhyr turned to look at him, clearly surprised.

“Did you want something?” Emhyr asked, trying to cover for himself.

Geralt shrugged. “You, I guess,” he said, and he probably should have been more alarmed by how much he meant it.

Emhyr swallowed. “I see. Can we bathe first?”

“Yeah, sounds good,” Geralt said, not missing the _we_ , and wow, he and Emhyr were a thing now, weren't they?

He probably didn't need to think about that too closely.

{~*~}

Emhyr finally admitted just _how_ sore he was while they were in the bath, and after a few minutes of incredible guilt for expecting Emhyr to be forthright and honest for once, Geralt jerked them both off in bed and curled up beside him, taking the opportunity to stroke Emhyr's hair.

If he was going to be Emhyr's new toy, he was doing it on _his_ terms. If Emhyr didn't like it, he could divorce him.

Or send him back to Toussaint.

Or _both_ , if he was feeling petty.

“You are almost nothing like I expected as a lover,” Emhyr said, awe in his voice as he lay perfectly still and let Geralt pet him.

The word _lover_ echoed in Geralt’s head, but after he’d turned it around a few times and examined it from a few different angles, he decided it was a fair description.

“Do I want to know what you were expecting?”

“I wasn't sure I could count on any kindness from you,” Emhyr said. “In this case, I am pleased to be wrong. But I have done nothing to earn it.”

“You need it,” Geralt said softly. And that was really what all this was about, wasn't it? Emhyr needed him. Geralt liked to be needed.

“I am not sure,” Emhyr began, his voice cracking. “I am not sure anyone has ever had that thought before.”

“Because you've spent the last thirty years trying to prove to the world that you're a monster in the hopes that their fear will keep you safe.”

“It has worked,” Emhyr said. “And now Ciri will be safe as well. Tell me you wouldn't have done the same to protect her.”

“I've done a lot to protect her,” Geralt said. He couldn't exactly fault Emhyr. He’d just been trying to survive.

And for all the destruction Nilfgaard had carved across the North, they were rebuilding now. Novigrad was safe for non-humans again. Velen was prosperous farmland from edge to edge. Temeria was free and a letter from Roche had told Geralt that he hated paperwork and this had all been a mistake, but there was contentment in it, too, and Geralt was glad that his friend’s efforts hadn't been in vain.

On balance, people had been better off with Emhyr than they ever would have been with their previous gaggle of squabbling, selfish rulers.

Emhyr had never been in this for himself, and that was why he’d been in danger of a coup pretty much every day of his life. The nobility _were_ selfish, which was how they got to be nobility in the first place.

Emhyr just wanted to serve Nilfgaard, and he’d been good at his job, and he’d paved the way for Ciri to be even better at it.

“I've met a lot of monsters who weren't all bad,” Geralt said.

“Dare I ask what you’ve done with them?”

“Made a friend, usually. Half my friends are someone else’s monster. More than half, actually.”

Emhyr hummed, and Geralt knew he was tucking that information away and taking time to digest it.

A not-uncomfortable silence fell between them, and Geralt took the opportunity to scent Emhyr as subtly as he could, his chest tightening with some unidentified feeling as he realised that Emhyr was starting to take on his scent.

If they stopped being in close contact it would go away quickly, but it was nice while it lasted. He liked it when other people smelled of him.

“I'm curious,” Emhyr spoke up. “What else can you do with magic?”

“Uh,” Geralt said, unprepared for the question. “Light fires. Push things around. Shield myself. Set magical traps, but mine aren't very good.”

“And what about Ciri? Can she do those things?”

Geralt snorted. “Witcher magic is… raw, and artificial. It comes with the mutations. Ciri’s magic is natural and more powerful than… pretty much anyone’s. But it's not _like_ other magic, either. You should ask her to show you.”

“I believe I will have to,” Emhyr said.

Another silence fell, and this time, Geralt was sure Emhyr was asleep until he drew a deliberate breath to speak.

“I spent most of my first week as emperor being violently ill the moment I was behind closed doors,” Emhyr said. “I am yet to develop the stomach for executions.”

The way he said it was so goddamn _calm_ , like he was commenting on the weather, that it took Geralt a handful of seconds to realise what he’d actually said.

His heart lurched as he realised. There'd been a _lot_ of executions, some of them particularly bloody, but Geralt had always known better than to think Emhyr _enjoyed_ them.

It had been execute or be executed. Which was why Geralt had spent much of his life trying not to get involved in politics. The more of it you did, the messier it got.

Emhyr had been born into it, though. He’d had little other choice.

“I am glad Ciri will have the chance to be kind, like my father,” Emhyr said. “I would have liked the opportunity to do so myself.”

The grief in his voice, the sheer _loss_ of having had to live a life of being outwardly cold and unfeeling, made something inside Geralt break.

He understood. Witchers weren't supposed to have feelings, either.

And yet he did, and right now, so many of them were directed toward Emhyr. Too many. He was well and truly drowning in this situation, and he’d either have to come up for air or learn to live with it, and once he chose which, he knew he couldn't go back.

“You can afford to be kind now,” Geralt said, and the feeling that he’d just grown exactly the kind of gills he needed for this washed over him.

He could choose Emhyr and Ciri or the chance to go back to his life, and it felt like he was making that choice right now.

“I'm not sure I know how,” Emhyr said.

“I'll show you,” Geralt promised, and he could suddenly breathe again, and it wasn't because he’d surfaced.

It was because he was letting himself fall in love with Emhyr.

{~*~}

Geralt woke alone, with a rose from the garden in the spot where Emhyr had been.

It was just something he’d _said_ , something that would have been entertaining if Emhyr really did it, but now… now it seemed _significant_. It seemed to mean something.

In the cold light of morning, Geralt didn’t want to think too deeply about it. He wanted to pretend that he wasn’t committed yet, that he hadn’t tripped helplessly over his own personality and fallen…

 _Hard_ …

For the former emperor of Nilfgaard.

All the same, he made his way back to his own quarters and let an attendant shave him, because he knew Emhyr didn’t _actually_ like the beard but hadn’t been willing to acknowledge that he knew Geralt was keeping it to… not _spite_ him, exactly, but to assert his control of the situation.

Control he didn’t have, and maybe never had, but had been clinging stupidly to all the same.

It was time to let go of it, accept that he was still swept up in the middle of his own destiny, and enjoy the ride.

{~*~}

Emhyr rewarded him for shaving by kissing his way eagerly along Geralt’s jaw, pushing him down into the bed, and, under Geralt’s careful instruction, making careful, gentle love to him for what seemed like hours.

The only thing that hurt at the end was Geralt’s _heart_ , clenching hard in his chest as Emhyr curled up beside him, torn between the weight of all the _feelings_ he suddenly had and the fear that he’d completely misread Emhyr, failed to understand what he wanted from sex entirely, and Emhyr had been too polite--or too stubborn--to correct him.

He didn’t fuck. He made love, sweet and soft as summer rain, and maybe that was inexperience, but maybe it was _preference_ , and Geralt wasn’t sure how to ask. He wasn’t sure he wanted an answer.

“Your thoughts are extremely loud,” Emhyr mumbled, his tongue heavy like the rest of his body, eager for sleep.

He hadn’t woken sobbing again yet. Geralt wasn’t sure if that was because it was an unusual occurrence, or because he had someone to share his bed with.

He knew from experience that sharing a bed calmed the worst of his own nightmares.

“You were gentle,” Geralt said, still trying to organise enough of his thoughts to ask the questions he wanted to ask.

“It was not to your liking?” Emhyr asked, and another person might have been fooled into thinking he really didn’t _care_ , but not Geralt.

“No. I mean, yes? I mean, I _liked_ it,” Geralt finally said, feeling the minute amount of tension that had been building in Emhyr’s shoulders slip away. “Is that… what you want?”

“Geralt,” Emhyr said, and he said Geralt’s actual _name_ so rarely that it sounded strange on his lips. “I think it goes without saying that there is ample proof available that I have enjoyed being thoroughly ravaged by a barbaric Northern witcher, some of it being kept in the palace archives.”

Geralt snorted. Yeah, okay, he was being stupid.

“But I possess neither your strength, stamina, or… carnal passion,” Emhyr said, obviously not _entirely_ happy with his choice of words. “The only tool I have to bring you pleasure is my undivided attention.”

Geralt wet his lips. Yeah, that _was_ what had been so good about it. Feeling like he was the centre of Emhyr’s world, as though everything else, including his conquest of the entire North, paled in comparison to having Geralt in his bed.

Which, obviously, had been Emhyr’s intention, but even knowing that didn’t stop Geralt from being hopelessly into it.

“Besides,” Emhyr continued. “You shaved for me. So I cannot be alone in feeling… a certain fondness for you.”

Geralt’s heart pounded in his chest, even as he was torn between the sure, definite knowledge that Emhyr was saying he was in love with him, and the incredible annoyance that _a certain fondness_ passed for a declaration from the rooftops.

“You’re not,” Geralt said, because what was the point in pretending otherwise? Emhyr knew. He’d only be lying to himself.

“I am gratified to hear it,” Emhyr said.

Geralt let himself bask in the glow of being loved. He hadn’t come here expecting it, and he’d never really _wanted_ it, but now that he had it…

Well, it really wasn’t so bad, being married to a former emperor.

“Ciri’s coronation tomorrow,” Geralt said. “You ready for it?”

“I do not share your profound distaste for formal affairs of state,” Emhyr said, although that was almost entirely a lie. He was just better at pretending he didn’t mind standing or sitting around for hours while other people got through tradition.

This had been his ambition, though. He’d wanted to see Ciri on the throne, and tomorrow, it was happening.

But it was also the final nail in the coffin of his own rule.

“You know what I’m asking.”

“You know,” Emhyr said. “I find that I _am_ quite ready for it. And I believe I am safe in telling you that this comes as a surprise.”

“Yeah, secret’s safe with me. Nothing ever surprises Emhyr var Emreis.”

“I also believe you’d be shocked to learn how very many things _do_ surprise me. Not least of all yourself.”

Geralt chuckled at that. “I like to keep things interesting.”

Emhyr huffed. “And somehow, you always manage,” he said. “Good night, Geralt.”

“Night, Emhyr,” Geralt responded as Emhyr snuggled against him, marvelling at the situation he’d gotten himself into and the degree to which he didn’t regret it.

{~*~}

Because he was a stupid, slow, simple witcher, things didn’t quite fall into place for Geralt until he was holding his hand against a sizeable stab wound to Emhyr’s gut on the steps of the temple, right after Ciri had been crowned Empress of Nilfgaard.

And even as he figured out that this had been Emhyr’s plan all along, that he’d been expecting to die today, he was torn between not _wanting_ him to die, and wanting to personally strangle him for…

Well, for _existing_ , more or less.

The assassin was already dead--he’d been too fast for Geralt to stop him getting Emhyr, since Emhyr had greeted him as warmly as he ever greeted anyone, and Geralt hadn’t noticed the threat until it was too late, but he’d sure as hell stuck the blade through the bastard’s throat.

There was no help coming. Healers didn’t come to coronations, they were too busy doing their jobs. And even if there _was,_ it wouldn’t do any good. This wasn’t the kind of wound you died instantly from. It was the kind of wound you suffered from for three days--maybe longer, if you were as stubborn as Emhyr--and then eventually died painfully of.

Geralt found himself biting his tongue, everything that came to mind to say to Emhyr went along the lines of _I’m going to tear your goddamn throat out for this_ , and he really didn’t want that to be the last thing Emhyr remembered him saying.

Because despite the fact that he’d been tricked and used and kept in the dark, Geralt was still in love with him, and he’d just gotten used to the idea, and he didn’t want Emhyr to _go_.

Before he could find something, _anything_ to say, Ciri pushed him out of the way, and in a flash of light, she and Emhyr were gone.

Which left Geralt surrounded by confused-looking nobles who thought he was little more than Emhyr’s pet witcher.

Geralt glanced at the body of the assassin he’d killed--about Emhyr’s age, well-dressed, almost certainly someone important. Hell, he was better dressed than _Emhyr_ had been, but what little Geralt had gathered of court etiquette suggested he shouldn’t have been, and why was he focusing on these details?

Right, because Emhyr had just dissolved under his hands in a flash of light and Geralt might not ever see him alive again.

The advisor Geralt had seen Ciri listening to a few times now approached, putting a hand on Geralt’s shoulder.

“Master Geralt,” she--Aileen, Geralt thought her name was--murmured softly, her voice as soft and comforting as a priestess or a healer. “You should come back to the palace.”

Geralt didn’t especially want to go back to the palace. All there was to find there was a living wake.

But on the other hand, he couldn’t exactly sit here until someone came to tell him Emhyr was dead.

He stood slowly, eyeing the crowd still surrounding the scene.

“Someone needs to secure that body,” he said, loud enough to be heard. “Because I’m planning on finding everyone he’s been in contact with him in the past week and having them rounded up for trial as co-conspirators.”

Aileen nodded, apparently not alarmed by Geralt’s threat. Why would she be? She’d met Emhyr, and Geralt could be just as dogged and vicious as Emhyr had made himself out to be. Except for him, it came a whole lot more naturally.

The trip back to the palace made Geralt want to leap out of the carriage and run in the other direction, but he clenched his fists and _dealt_ with it, and Aileen only watched him with sharp, clever eyes that actually reminded him--more than a little painfully--of Emhyr himself. He could see why she’d been chosen as one of Ciri’s advisors. Ciri’s _chief_ advisor, Geralt thought, though he wasn’t entirely sure.

At least people just _directed_ him to where Emhyr was and let him through without incident, apparently having grown accustomed to his presence over the past few days.

Ciri was sitting by Emhyr’s bed, stroking his deathly-pale forehead.

Three healers were hovering around, and they weren’t just any healers--they were court mages, and Geralt had maybe been stupid to think that there wasn’t any help for this.

There wouldn’t have been help for a _witcher_ , who could never have afforded it and wouldn’t have been able to find it in time even if they somehow could, but Emhyr was an emperor.

He made up his mind: he _definitely_ wanted to strangle him, and he’d wait until he was awake and aware before he did it.

For now, though, he pulled up a chair beside Ciri and settled in to wait.

{~*~}

“You said _you_ asked him to ask me to marry him,” Geralt said once the mages were gone and Emhyr was in a magically-induced sleep, paralysed so he wouldn’t compromise his own healing by… well, by being himself.

“I did,” Ciri said. “Why?” she asked, tearing her gaze away from Emhyr for the first time.

Geralt remembered, vividly, Emhyr talking about putting words in other people’s mouths and having them think it was their idea in the first place.

“So what made you ask?” Geralt prodded.

“He was talking about all the things he could do to uh… neutralise his enemies, and they all seemed to involve a lot of death and dismemberment, and then he sort’ve… almost _laughed_ at the end, and said he could just marry you and settle the argument, and I thought he was joking but then when I looked into-- _oh_ ,” Ciri said as she reached the same conclusion Geralt already had. “The _bastard_.”

Geralt smiled grimly and without any humour. At least Emhyr was consistent. What was it he’d said? He couldn’t help conceiving plans.

And worst of all, he’d known exactly what was going to happen today, and when Geralt had asked him about it last night, he’d just said he was ready.

He didn’t _warn_ him, or let him in on the plan. He’d just said he was ready--ready to _die_ , maybe?--and curled up next to Geralt, and fallen asleep.

They’d even made love again this morning, Geralt treating Emhyr to the same soft gentleness Emhyr had shown him, and Emhyr had come sobbing with pleasure under him and he still hadn’t said a damned thing.

Geralt clenched his fists to stop himself from actually killing Emhyr.

Only because Ciri wouldn’t have been happy with him.

And because, mad as Geralt was, he would have missed him.

Damn. He was getting soft in his old age.

“I’m gonna go rip everyone involved apart,” Geralt said, standing.

“They need to stand trial,” Ciri said without looking away from Emhyr again. “But they could stand trial missing a few parts,” she conceded.

“I’ll bring them in breathing,” Geralt promised, reaching out to stroke Ciri’s hair, his thumb catching briefly on the thin, elegant, elven-style coronet sitting just above her ears. He could see the resemblance to Lara Dorren now, and maybe that was a weird thought to have, but it saved him thinking about everything else.

“Get someone to send for me if he gets worse,” Geralt said.

He wasn’t going to come running back the minute Emhyr woke. He _wasn’t_.

But he was going to make sure Ciri was safe by lining up some heads to roll. Emhyr might not have ever come to like executions, but that was too damned bad.

If he’d wanted a say in this, he shouldn’t have opened himself up to getting killed.

{~*~}

By the time Emhyr was awake, three days later, Geralt had finished rooting out everyone even remotely connected to the plot against him.

Some of them had expressed amusement at forcing Emhyr to _debase_ himself with a common witcher.

All of those people had broken fingers now. Geralt didn’t care. He was angry. He was tired. And despite everything he’d accomplished, despite being able to _prove_ that all these people were involved and having managed to uphold Emhyr’s precious laws, more or less, in the process, he didn’t feel any satisfaction.

That was what he’d been brought here to do, wasn’t it? To hunt down all these people _after_ they’d gotten to Emhyr. To do it legally, and to have a strong lead to start with, and to be _motivated_.

Emhyr had gone out of his way to put on a performance that would ensure Geralt fell for him. And he’d called _Geralt_ an accomplished actor.

There was every chance Geralt still _would_ strangle him when he saw him.

Emhyr had the gall to smile when Geralt walked into the room, a tiny movement at the corner of his lips that was the equivalent of a broad grin on his face.

“Don’t you _dare_ look at me like that,” Geralt said, and Emhyr’s face fell, and _that_ didn’t give him any satisfaction either. He felt sick. Everything hurt, but his heart more than anything.

“There were a thousand ways you could have gotten me to cooperate with this absolutely insane plan and you had to go with the one that was most manipulative,” Geralt continued. “I don’t know why I ever expected better. I thought I was seeing a different side to you. I thought… I _thought_.”

“Geralt,” Emhyr said softly, his voice rough from disuse. “You must allow me-”

“No,” Geralt said. “Firstly, I don’t _have_ to do anything, because you’re not the emperor anymore.”

Not that he’d ever taken Emhyr’s orders seriously when he _had_ been the emperor, but that wasn’t the point.

“Secondly, you don’t need to explain, because I was stupid enough not to figure this out from the beginning, but if you think I haven’t figured it out by now then you’re underestimating me. You put the idea into Ciri’s head to encourage me to marry you. Because you _knew_ that this was how things were going to play out, or at least had a damned good idea they would. And what did you need on the scene when it finally happened? A witcher who…”

Geralt swallowed. He wasn’t used to being this impotently angry, and he hated the way it felt. “Who _cared_ about you, and would track down every last asshole involved, and do it the _right_ way. You knew marrying me wouldn’t satisfy them. You were just _using_ me.”

Emhyr pursed his lips, apparently not quite ready with a suitable lie.

“You planned on dying,” Geralt said. “Right?”

Emhyr inclined his head, just slightly. “I had imagined a more decisive killing blow, and I was unaware how much control Cirilla had over her powers,” he said, his voice cracking under the strain.

Geralt glanced at the water beside his bed, and then decided that if he wanted it, he could damned well _ask_.

“And you couldn’t have _let me in on the plan_?” Geralt growled. “Given me the slightest hint that you planned on throwing yourself on an assassin’s dagger?”

“You would have stopped me,” Emhyr said.

And Geralt couldn’t argue with that, because it was true.

“And besides, you lack the necessary subtlety to pretend convincingly. And you would have been well compensated for your services.”

Geralt’s fingers twitched, the urge to close them around Emhyr’s throat increasing with every word. “I don’t want to _inherit_ from you, you complete and utter asshole. I want you _alive_.”

Emhyr raised an eyebrow. “Then I cannot see why you seem so upset.”

Geralt blinked at him, trying to hide the fact that he could feel his heart actually tearing in two.

“Yeah, well,” Geralt said, fighting to keep his voice even. “Feel free to write me a letter when you figure it out.”

He could feel Emhyr staring after him as he walked away, and _that_ , finally, gave him a kind of vicious satisfaction until he had to ask someone to tell Ciri he was going back to Toussaint, and then he just felt cold.

Mounting up on the horse Emhyr had more or less forced him to take felt even worse, but as he put his back to the Nilfgaardian capital, a kind of grim determination to have nothing to do with Emhyr ever again settled over him.

{~*~}

For three weeks, Geralt cut a bloody swath through Toussaint and only stopped because he’d run out of monsters and bandits had started turning themselves in rather than risk an encounter with him.

He didn’t feel any better about anything. He was sore, and covered in blood and other assorted internal--and external--fluids, and he wanted to sleep for a week in the hopes that _maybe_ , then, he’d stop feeling like he’d left a part of himself all the way back in Nilfgaard.

Barnabas-Basil was pacing in front of the villa when Geralt got there, which could only be a bad sign, and Geralt _really_ wasn’t in the mood to deal with any problems around the vineyard right now.

“Something up?”

Barnabas-Basil gave Geralt a look of sheer dismay, and even a little fear. “Sir, I… uh.”

“Out with it,” Geralt said. “Can’t be worse than anything else I’ve dealt with lately.”

“The former emperor of Nilfgaard arrived an hour ago and insists on speaking to you,” the majordomo said.

Geralt blinked at him.

Apparently, it _could_ be worse.

“Fine.” Geralt sighed, heading for the door. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Sir, you can’t… you’re covered in blood, and to present yourself _armed_ in front of the emperor--”

“Relax, B.B.,” Geralt said, smiling wryly. “We’re married.”

This time, it was Barnabas-Basil’s turn to blink. He paused for a moment, taking that information in, and eventually said, “this would account for the sudden demand for your wine.”

“Yeah,” Geralt sighed.

Like Emhyr had said, he was suddenly a _very_ successful vintner.

Still clearly turning that new information over in his mind, Barnabas-Basil let Geralt slip past him into the villa.

Emhyr was sitting at the long table in the main hall, chatting amicably with Marlene. She had no reason to have any idea who he was, Geralt supposed. Besides, she was _used_ to the nobility, even if maybe not the company of emperors.

Marlene looked between them as Geralt came in, and then stood. “You have much to discuss,” she said, giving Emhyr a slight, shallow curtsey, and nodding to Geralt, and then disappearing into the kitchen.

Geralt’s stomach sank. He couldn’t even rely on his own household staff to rescue him.

“Your cook is charming,” Emhyr said. “And tells me you are _still_ in the habit of breaking curses.”

Geralt shrugged. “Kind of in the job description,” he said. “You want something?”

“I have been banished from the palace until such time as I am able to convince you to return with me,” Emhyr said.

Geralt smirked. Ciri had a lot of people to thank for the way she’d grown up, but _that_ was pure Yen. She would have been proud.

“That’s unfortunate for you.”

“Indeed,” Emhyr agreed. “I had hoped that as we are still married, I might prevail upon you for a place to stay.”

“How did you even _get_ here?” Geralt asked.

“Cirilla left me on your doorstep,” he said. “At my request.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow.

“I am not going to apologise for being dishonest with you. It was to protect our daughter.”

Geralt sighed, shrugging his swords off and hanging them on the racks where he kept them when he was home. “I wasn’t really expecting you to,” he said. “You never apologise.”

“I am sorry for a great many other things,” Emhyr said. “And I think I should correct a misunderstanding between us.”

“Yeah?” Geralt asked, folding his arms over his chest.

“As you correctly assumed, I had imagined my plan would result in my death,” Emhyr said. “You’ve seen just how many people would have liked to remove my influence permanently. I thought perhaps the best solution was to simply _let_ them.”

“None of this is new information,” Geralt said.

“It may not have occurred to you that I wished to die without regrets.”

“And what, you’ve always wanted to fuck a witcher?” Geralt asked, not sure how any of this was supposed to be _helping_ Emhyr’s cause.

“You are not a stupid man,” Emhyr said. “So you must know better than that.”

Geralt swallowed. This was running too close to something he _didn’t_ want to hear.

“That first night,” he began cautiously. “You said you’d always wanted _me_ , didn’t you?”

Emhyr gave a small, graceful nod, his features not even twitching. “But I should confess that my initial desire was… based more in wanting something I could never have than anything else. And you should know that I did _not_ manipulate my way into requiring a witness, that was the first sign of my carefully-conceived plan going wrong.”

Tension he hadn’t realised he’d been holding eased out of Geralt’s stomach. He wasn’t sure he could have forgiven Emhyr if he’d _intended_ to put Geralt in that particular situation.

“Kinda curious as to what this plan actually _was_ ,” Geralt said, shifting his weight just a little.

“To make sure Ciri knew I loved her, and to seduce you,” Emhyr said. “And to allow you to see me as human, so that you might have a kind word or two to say about me to my daughter when I was gone.”

“So you thought making me fall in love with you and then _intentionally dying_ was a good way to leave me with nice things to say about you?” Geralt raised an eyebrow.

“The possibility that you might feel anything other than a slight softening in your distaste for my existence never crossed my mind. I was utterly blindsided by your capacity to _care_ for me, and by the time I realised, it was too late.”

“You could have told me _any time_ before you nearly got yourself killed. That morning, even!” Geralt said, not about to buy Emhyr’s crap.

“I didn’t realise until Cirilla told me,” Emhyr said, pursing his lips tightly. “After you left.”

And part of Geralt didn’t want to _believe_ that, because Emhyr wasn’t an idiot, but… the level of discomfort he was showing in admitting it told Geralt that he was telling the truth.

“And to be absolutely clear, I had no intention of falling in love with you, either. But here we are.”

Geralt swallowed. That was about as close as he was _ever_ going to get to a declaration from the rooftops.

It was enough. Hell, it was all he’d wanted to hear, and he could feel the tattered parts of his heart knitting back together in his chest.

He surged forward, making Emhyr cry out as he dropped his entire weight into the former emperor’s lap, and shut him up with a kiss.

Barnabas-Basil came in briefly--probably to make sure Geralt wasn’t murdering Emhyr--but disappeared before Geralt even needed to tear his attention away from re-learning every inch of Emhyr’s neck and jaw.

“May I take it that I am forgiven?” Emhyr asked.

“Not even _close_ ,” Geralt said. “But I’m glad you’re alive.”

“I will take that, for now.” Emhyr’s tongue darted out to wet his lips. “I assume you have a bed?”

Geralt rolled his eyes, but got off Emhyr’s lap and nodded toward the bedroom door. “Come on,” he said. “I missed you, too.”

{~*~}

Geralt realised he’d forgiven Emhyr around the time Emhyr started to smell of him again.

But also around the time Emhyr had resolutely referred to him as his _husband_ in front of Anna Henrietta, who had demanded their presence at the ducal palace. Or rather--had demanded Geralt’s presence, because she _could_ order him around, and gotten Emhyr as part of the package.

Which would probably put a stop to the orders, based on the way her eyes had widened when she’d seen him.

Ciri showed up a month later, worried that she hadn’t heard from either of them--and caught them in the middle of Emhyr performing his first-ever blowjob, which was cut short only because Geralt insisted that they didn’t keep going while she was waiting in the house.

Emhyr had pouted.

Geralt was _definitely_ in love with him, especially since he really was a quick study and he’d figured out _just_ where to put his tongue almost immediately, and Geralt came so fast on the second attempt that he was actually a little embarrassed.

Emhyr was insufferably smug about it, but he kept _doing_ it as a result, so Geralt couldn’t bring himself to mind much.

Ciri caught them three times in three days and then decided it was time for her brief escape from the palace to be over, which Emhyr approved of, but it was hard to tell whether that was because he wanted Ciri to take her job seriously, or because he wanted to fuck Geralt without fear of interruption.

Judging by the next three days, it was at least a _little_ of the latter.

“I am forgiven,” Emhyr said after a particularly eager round, so goddamn _sure_ that Geralt almost wanted to tell him he wasn’t.

“How do you know?” he asked instead, curious about what had given him away.

“You shaved for me,” Emhyr said simply. “Just as I had started to accept that I would simply have to live with your beard.”

“I can always grow it back,” Geralt pointed out.

Emhyr gave him a withering look.

“I forgave you a while back,” Geralt said.

“You might have said so.” Emhyr huffed.

Geralt chuckled, pressing a kiss to Emhyr's temple. “I love the way you said that without even the faintest trace of irony.”

Emhyr was silent for a moment, and then he cleared his throat. “Your point is taken. I will endeavour to be more forthright in future.”

Geralt knew for a fact that Emhyr would only try to be _forthright_ when it suited him, but he couldn't make himself mind all that much.

“Uh huh,” he said. “Love you, too.”

He didn’t need Emhyr to change. He needed him to keep on keeping on, like he always had, and he didn’t know how or why that had happened, but here they were. And here, Geralt was hoping, was where they’d stay.

And Geralt still didn’t especially want the Emperor of Nilfgaard moving in with him…

But maybe it was okay if Emhyr did.


End file.
